


Tumbling the Hobbit

by esama



Series: Tumbling Snippets [5]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, BAMF Bilbo, Snippets, Time Travel, many many one shots, many many plots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-25
Updated: 2017-04-22
Packaged: 2018-02-14 16:27:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 59,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2198730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esama/pseuds/esama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Random one shot hobbit snippets and ideas that didn't get past first chapter, and a bunch of snippets done to prompts from tumblr. Mostly Bilbo Centric. Slash, crack, au, timetravel, etc.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Proofread by Darlene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt by wheretherebescreaming: Wherein Hobbits are not what they seem. At all.

On the second day of their venture, Bilbo pulled Gandalf aside to have a few strong words.

"Three meals per day?" he hissed. " _Three_?! And no tea?" He'd brought up the point with their leader a couple of times, once the previous day and again that day, and gotten cold, harsh stares for his troubles – as if he was in the wrong for asking! "The contract promised provisions, full meals!"

"My dear Bilbo," the wizard answered, sounding apologetic. "Most are not like hobbits and three meals per day are more than enough to provide for Men, Elves and even Dwarrows – indeed, it is a plentiful sort of fare for a venture of this nature."

"So I should starve and wither away on this quest, merely because _others_ can do with less?" Bilbo asked. "Would you ask our pony to do with less, merely because rabbits can manage? A week of this and I will be of no use for anything, never mind burgling! If I don't die."

"Don't be so dramatic, Bilbo," Gandalf answered with a huff. "You will still be fed, merely not as much as you're used to." But there was a gleam of worry in his eyes – he had travelled with a hobbit before, after all, he knew their ways. "Well," he said. "I will figure something out."

"If you don't, then please convince Master Oakenshield that I must visit a place where I can buy my own provisions," Bilbo snapped. "Either that or you can bid your burglar good riddance."

He got his way in the end – he and Gandalf parted with the rest of the party to visit a small human settlement, where Bilbo could use some of his own coin to purchase himself a pair of pack mules and plenty of dry foodstuff to weather him through what would apparently be a long and _hungry_ journey.

"You _have_ gotten used to your luxuries, haven't you, Master Baggins?" Oakenshield said, disproving, when they rejoined the rest of the party.

"My _luxuries_ I paid for with my own money, and it is no skin off your nose," Bilbo answered, chewing his way through some tasteless jerky. "And you may take your condescending comments and aim them to whoever _cares_."

 

* * *

 

On the fifth day of their journey, Ori descended off the back of his pony badly, and twisted his ankle. It was, Bilbo commented, the strangest thing he'd ever heard of.

"You've never twisted your ankle, Master Baggins?" Óin asked, while tending to the swelling foot.

"No, nor have I ever heard of anyone else doing it either. What does it mean?" Bilbo asked, and with fascination heard of the weakness of joints, especially those in the feet, and how easily one could tear ligaments and strain the muscles and even break the sinews. He'd never heard the like.

"Well, it is not so bad; a couple days off the foot – which he will get on the pony – and it will be right as rain," the old, half deaf dwarf commented. "And we can count ourselves lucky it didn't break."

"Break?" Bilbo asked, in a sort of morbid fascination. "A Dwarven foot can break?"

"The bones, Master Baggins," Óin said, giving him a strange look. "Even Dwarven bones are likely to shatter, if you abuse them."

"What a soft life you live in the shire, if no one ever breaks a bone," Dwalin muttered from where he was tending to his pony's saddle. "I can count all my broken bones with my fingers and toes and still need extra hands."

"How does a bone _break_?" Bilbo asked, bewildered, unable to wrap his mind around the alien concept.

"I could show you," Dwalin suggested. "Might teach you a thing or two about how life is outside your cushy little Shire."

"Never mind, Dwalin," Óin said and finished binding Ori's foot. "There you go lad. Keep off it and you'll be alright."

"It still hurts," Ori grumbled and limped to the waiting Dori, who was all settled to coddle him, judging by the looks of it.

Bilbo shook his head in amazement. Twisting ankles and breaking bones – and pain too. Life outside the Shire _was_ strange.

 

* * *

 

Bilbo hung held between the trolls, two of them each holding one of his arms and legs, one holding him by the head. "Lay down your arms!" one of the trolls, Tom, demanded, staring down at the dwarves. "Or well rip his off."

Bilbo blinked with confusion at that. Rip his arms off? "Wait, wha -?" he started to ask, but Thorin had already thrown his sword down, a furious look about his face, the others following suit. Bilbo looked at them and then at the trolls. "Rip my arms off?" he asked confusedly.

"Hah," another troll, Bert, said and released his hands. "Let's bag 'em."

"Rip my arms off?" Bilbo asked again, but no one was listening to him.

Later, after the trolls were all stone, Óin went over all the dwarves, treating their bruises. They had a _lot_ of bruises, after being roughly stripped of their armour and weapons and shoved into bags – and those poor ones who had been strung on the spit even had burns. Bilbo missed most of it, busy poking around the troll purses to figure out how they made the alarm sound he'd fallen for.

"Strip, laddie," Óin said.

"Why?" Bilbo blinked at him.

"We need to treat yer bruises, otherwise you'll be no good to anyone for following days. It'll only take a jiffy," Óin said.

"Bruises?" Bilbo asked, blinking again.

"Of for the love of Mahal," Dwalin muttered. "You've never been bruised either? Have you done _anything_ in your life?"

Bilbo had never been bruised. Nor was he bruised this time, they found after Bilbo had been stripped down to his small clothes, much to his embarrassment.

"He's completely unmarked," Óin said, while the others stared with fascination.

"And lily white to boot!" Kíli sniggered.

"Yes, thank you very much," Bilbo muttered, folding his arms over his chest. Compared to the travel worn and road dusty dwarves, he was white as a sheet with his skin being still relatively clean even with the mishandling by the trolls. The fact that he had none of the ample stomach or chest or shoulders most hobbits had didn't make his sudden bout of mortified self-consciousness any better. "Can I put my clothes on now?"

"Please do," Oakenshield harrumphed, looking away.

Bilbo harrumphed right back and went to put his clothes on, giving each article a sad look as he did. They were good hobbit make, and yet both his jacket sleeves had torn almost right off at the seams.

 

* * *

 

After being chased by orcs and wargs and all that nonsense, the meal at Rivendell was greatly welcome. Especially since the Dwarrows obviously decided not to eat any of it.

"More for me then," Bilbo announced cheerfully and with disgusted grimaces all the Dwarrows around him all but poured their greens onto his plate, for Bilbo to happily much through.

"Where do you _fit_ it all?" Kíli asked with fascination, but Bilbo was entirely too busy feeding himself properly to answer...

"However did you manage to persuade one of the Hobbits out of the Shire?" Elrond asked Gandalf quietly, looking at the Hobbit who had already gone through three elves worth of food, and was reaching for more. "I thought them firmly rooted in those valleys."

"Very firmly. But sometimes adventure calls even for the trees and rocks – and hard packed things that live in between," Gandalf smiled, also watching Bilbo eat. "You might wish to call for more food, lest he find your table lacking in its hospitality."

"Yes, I suppose I must," Elrond mused, waving for those elves waiting to serve to bring their guests more to eat. "Next time you bring a Hobbit here, I would appreciate a warning. Feeding a pack of Dwarves is easier, compared to keeping one Hobbit properly fed."

"Mm-hmm," Gandalf agreed, smiling. "And imagine, this one is getting actual physical _exercise_. I shudder to think what sort of appetite he will have, once all is over and done with."

 

* * *

 

"Oh for – omphh!" Bilbo grunted.

At the peripheral corner of his vision, the rock giants were having their brawl. He'd lost sight of half of the Dwarrows, Thorin had been with them and Dwalin, and could only hope they had gotten out of the way before the stone giant had crashed onto the mountainside. He couldn't worry about them, though, not now.

"Bilbo?" Bofur asked with horror.

Bilbo was pinned between the giant's leg and the mountain wall, his shoulders against the stone of the leg, his feet against the wall, pushing back, straining with as much might as he could muster. "Jump off, jump off!" he shouted at Kíli and the others and for a split second they just stared at him in incomprehension. "JUMP OFF!" Bilbo roared, and they jumped off the ledge on the giant's foot, and into the small alcove on the mountain wall.

Bilbo saw them to the alcove, waited until they'd all backed away as far as they could, before relaxing his push and dropping down. But to his surprise, the giant barely pushed in before pulling back, taking a step away – tearing away rock and stone and cliff wall as it went – and with it, the footing where he'd been aiming to drop.

He barely managed to find a handhold on the crumbling stone wall, and got more than a few boulders raining down his back where he lay against the stone. It was, perhaps, the first time in his life that Bilbo actually felt _strain_ – it was a very strange sort of sensation, and had he had the time he would've liked to examine it a bit further.

He was kicking at the stone wall to try get himself a foot hold when Bofur shouted for him and tried to reach for him. It was Thorin who hoisted him up, and for a moment the Dwarf's eyes widened at the weight of him, before he caused him to over balance, and almost fall over the edge.

"I thought we'd lost our burglar," Dwalin muttered, brushing the bits of stone off Bilbo's back, once Thorin had been pulled up.

"He's been lost ever since he left home," Thorin answered spitefully. "He should've never come. He has no place among us."

Bofur looked at their leader and then at Bilbo with wide eyes. "But, what –" he said and blinked, realising he'd been the only one to see.

Bilbo shook his head, at him and at Thorin. "Let's just get out of the rain," he muttered. "And get something to eat."

Thorin's derisive snort was almost louder than the battle of the rock giants.

 

* * *

 

Bilbo woke up next to a dead orc, in the bottom of what looked like an endless ravine. It took him a while, a long, confused while, to figure out what had happened. He'd been in the goblin town and then he'd fallen and now he was… in the bottom, somewhere, after a fall that must've been as tall as the very mountain they were looking to find.

Blinking, Bilbo looked at the crushed, broken orc that lay beside him and shifted, wincing. He felt strange, stiff and… and maybe that was the _pain_ Dwarrows so liked to go on about? What an unpleasant sensation.

Then there was a creature, pale and gangly, going over the broken remains of the orc. "Yes, yes," it breathed. "Nasty goblins, but good meat, yes, _gollum, gollum_." It peered up. "Good ravine, drop good meat."

And it probably had. Judging by the looks of the rusty brown rocks, that orc wasn't the first that had fallen, nor the first that had died in the fall. Uneasy, Bilbo peered up. It was… rather a long way down.

So, Dwarrows weren't the only oddly fragile creatures out there. Orcs were about the same too, then.

The Gollum creature went over the broken Orc and began tearing off its legs and arms, already almost broken loose and easily ripped off the rest of the way. While Bilbo watched, it hoisted them up to its shoulder and turned to leave. "Good meat, yes, _gollum, gollum_ ," it said, and as it turned something golden glinted at its belt, and fell.

Bilbo's eyes followed it down.

 

* * *

 

Bilbo didn't think. He dashed forward, lifting his shining Elvish dagger up and met the warg with it, feeling the beast's skull break before he wrenched the dagger loose. Then he turned to the orc that had been riding the beast and once it was no longer moving, he turned to defend the downed Thorin. The pale orc stared down at him, looking irritated.

What follows is a desperate scuffle between the orcs and the Dwarrows and Bilbo loses track of things for a moment – he feels bones break under the Elven blade and it makes shivers of unease run down his spine. Wargs and orgs all are so… weirdly fragile, it feels almost ill to fight them. But they're threatening the Dwarrows who are no less fragile than they are, so Bilbo fights, clumsy and untrained and only half certain of the effectiveness of his attacks – but when the attacks land, they land deep, they go through armour and flesh and bone. They don't just land, but they tear through. The Elven blade is strong and Bilbo's hand on it is stronger. Together they make a deadly, if somewhat awkward, pair.

Then they're aloft and safe, carried by the wings of the Eagles of Manwë.

 

* * *

"Bilbo," Bofur said and Bilbo _almost_ managed to tear himself away from the glorious, _glorious_ dinner Beorn had served them. "No, don't stop on my accord, you must be starving," the toy maker quickly said, holding a hand up. "Just, after you're done, I'd like to try something. If you don't mind."

Bilbo shoved the gloriously heavy lump of cheese in his mouth, his manners flown right off by the several days' worth of forced fasting, swallowed it quickly and then licked his lip before reaching for the nearest apple. "Try what?" he asked. There hadn't been much food between Rivendell and Beorn's house, and hobbit hunger pains were nothing to sneer at.

"I want to arm wrestle with you," Bofur said seriously.

The Dwarrows around them all burst out in laughter, the momentary safety of the large house and its grounds having lulled them into momentary ease. "Oh come now, Bofur," Balin said, chuckling. "No need to pick on the lad."

"I'm not," Bofur said, looking at Bilbo evenly. "I… I want to know. If you don't mind."

"No, I don't mind," Bilbo shrugged, looking at him thoughtfully. "If you're sure," he said and turned to his dinner, reaching for the nearest loaf of bread and tearing a piece off of it and dunking it in the bowl of honey Beorn had set down in front of him. "You might want a get a gauntlet," Bilbo added, worriedly. Dwarrows, after all, could bruise. And break bones.

"A gauntlet?" Fíli asked, amused, even as Bofur nodded seriously and went to fetch the armoured gloves he rarely used.

Bilbo shrugged and went about finishing his meal – including another whole loaf of bread, several plump apples, what remained of the raspberries, and the rest of the walnuts that the other didn't seem interested in. Beorn looked on knowingly, and poured him another huge pint of thick, sweet milk, before lifting the remains of the deer off the fire, and onto the blessedly big plate in front of Bilbo.

The skin changer's table was Bilbo's absolute favourite so far on this dratted quest. Beorn definitely knew how to feed a hobbit.

The others, by now adjusted to Bilbo, hoisted their half-finished gigantic bowls at him, and Bilbo finished them too, feeling pleasantly full and not even slightly hungry. He wiped at his lips and washed the last of the bread down with the last of the milk in his enormous pint. "You keep a fine table, Master Beorn," he said, full of gratitude. "Finest I've seen in a long while."

The skin changer nodded gravely at the compliment before turning to talk with Thorin and Gandalf.

"So," Bilbo said, turning to Bofur. "About that arms wrestling."

"This I've got to see," Kíli said, and quickly the others cleared their corner of the table, looking on with mirth and excitement as Bofur settled down, holding a gauntleted right hand for Bilbo to grasp. Bilbo eyed it and quickly brushed his hands on his napkin, before shifting to take the hand.

It took no effort to pin Bofur's hand down. Bilbo tried to do it gently, not gripping too hard – it wouldn't do to ruin his friend's armour. But judging by the look on Bofur's face, he could tell the difference in strength.

"Oh, come on Bofur!" Kíli said. "Stop joking. Do it again!"

"No, once was enough for me," Bofur said, looking at his hand and then up at Bilbo. There was unreadable look on his face for a moment. "Seven meals a day, huh?" he said. "I guess they're not small meals either. Now that I think about it, your pantry was fairly large, for one person."

"What in Mahal's name are you talking about?" Dwalin asked.

"How about you try it," Bofur said, moving aside and motioning Dwalin to sit down. "Go on, try it."

Dwalin scoffed but sat down, looking at Bilbo with annoyance. "Well then, Burglar," he said, and held his hand up. "I'll make this quick."

It was quick – Dwalin went red and then let out an explosive sigh and then his knuckles met the table. Bilbo released his hand and then looked at Dwalin who was staring at his hand in bewilderment.

"What?" the warrior Dwarf asked, scowling and turning to Bilbo. "Is this some sort of trick? Again, Hobbit, and no tricks this time."

Bilbo shrugged and they arm wrestled again – four times, once with Kíli and Fíli standing at each side of Bilbo to make sure he wasn't _cheating_. Then Fíli and Kíli both tried, together, each grabbing Bilbo by the hand and trying to pin his hand down. Then Bifur tried, and Bombur and by the time Glóin sat across from Bilbo with a gleam in his eyes, Thorin, Gandalf and Beorn had noticed.

"What are you doing?" Thorin asked, as Glóin's arm went down.

"Trying to figure out how he's doing this," Kíli said, peering under the table. "There's got to be some sort of trick."

"I want a rematch," Dwalin said, glaring at Bilbo.

"Tea, Master hobbit?" Beorn rumbled, looking amused.

"Might as well," Bilbo sighed. "This looks like it might take a while."

It did take a while, the better part of an hour as all the Dwarrows tried their might against him, and all of them failed – including Thorin, who after half an hour of watching couldn't help but try it himself. He held out no longer than anyone else had – including the combined efforts of Dwalin, Bofur, Bifur, Nori, Kíli and Fíli who'd taken one of Bombur's ladles for Bilbo to hold, and tried them all of them together to force Bilbo's hand. They broke the ladle – and it was made of strong, sturdy iron.

"Well then, Burglar, tell us the trick," Dwalin demanded. "How're you doing this?"

"No trick," Bilbo shrugged, sipping from his bowl of a tea cup.

"No, indeed," Gandalf said, amused. "I did tell you that Hobbits are hardy creatures, didn't I? None hardier in all of the lands."


	2. Straying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt by Uvecheri: Dogs :P

After the Battle of Five Armies, Bilbo spends some time in the ruined city of Laketown, picking up the pieces. Pieces of what, he isn't sure. Himself, maybe.

It's the one place around Erebor where he can find a bit of peace from the war and it's sad after effects.

Not much remains of Laketown. The buildings have crumbled into charred ruins, and all that remain of the walkways and streets are the support struts they once stood on, struts that now stick out of the dark, still ash stained water like blunt knives. It's not enough to carry the weight of anyone that weighed more than a human child – and so, Bilbo is alone. He jumps from one charred pole to another, skipping over floating debris, taking in the crumbled remains of boats and rooftops as they bob on the dirty waves.

Smaug's body is still there, half on the dock, half off it, bobbing on the waves. It had been forgotten in the sudden fighting, and as it was no one had dared to have a go at it, the area being what it was, a mire of crumbling wood and things hidden beneath the surface. Smaug is graceless in death, so much dead meat really, and for a while Bilbo looks upon him, at his head where it rests on the pier with his long serpentine tongue lolling out.

Then in a fit of mad grief and anger he defaces the dragon and pries a number of thick strong scales off the broad red chest. Smaug has enough gold and gems stuck between his scales to fill a small chest, but Bilbo contents himself with a couple of small pouches that he can easily carry. He packs them and the scales in a burlap sack, and then he leaves the great firedrake to rot.

It feels wrong to scavenge Laketown like he does, but he does it anyway. He finds a couple of barrels floating on the water, and discovers in them an odd sort of long grain, hard and dry and marked to be something called _rice_. Figuring it to be some food from some far off land – Laketown had still supported some of Dale's trade, after all – Bilbo filled a sack with it and moved on. In some storage boxes he finds exotic looking spices, and takes some of them as well. In the ruins of a house he finds some vegetables and fruits, which add their weight to his pack.

They aren't the only things he finds. He takes an oil skin from one of the boats and packs it away, and then spends a while finding a needle and yarn strong enough to sew it – it would make a good rain cloak. He takes the first proper sort of backpack he can find, and spends some time refitting it to hobbit size. He also scavenges some clothing, probably meant for children, which should help him on the journey over the Misty Mountains. Like that, like a thief in the night, he makes ready for a long, unhappy journey home.

Bilbo is almost ready to head off when he hears an odd sound over the waves. A sort of high pitched whining. It doesn't sound like a human, but it's the first sound of life he's heard so he quickly investigates it, if not for any other reason than to save it from the crumbling city. It takes a while to find where it comes from, but soon he does – it's one of the large barrels floating in the water, which he'd so far ignored because it was broken on the side and obviously breached.

It takes effort to get the barrel close enough to see what's in it, but with some rope and a long oar, he manages it eventually. And so he finds the dogs. They're tucked in the bottom of the barrel, along with some bedding and all the filth eight dogs can make when trapped in a small space.

"Oh, you poor things," Bilbo mutters. "Left behind and forgotten."

Like he'd been, during all the fighting and warring and impressive grand things that had happened during the battle.

He doesn't know much about dogs – but he remembers seeing a couple of dogs nosing about on Laketown pier – small little things they'd been, sort of scrunched up. These ones are less colourful, all of them mostly grey, but they look a lot like the other dogs had – which would make sense, Laketown is not the sort of place where you could have too many large animals after all. That, his own loneliness and the heart wrenching sympathy he feels for the poor whining creatures, decides him.

Bag End was a bit too big for one hobbit anyway – he could use the company.

 

* * *

 

How he makes it through Mirkwood is half a miracle – and the other half is thanks to the dogs. They dash about and play wildly among the trees and their roots and somehow that makes handling the oddly murky atmosphere of the place a bit easier. They also have an extremely keen sense of direction – at least, they seem to know how to find him at all times – and that makes keeping his own direction easier. Something about the wild happiness of the dogs makes everything simply… easier.

They are also not dogs at all. They're _pups_. And most likely not at all the same breed as the little scrunched up dogs he'd seen before.

These ones are clumsy things, their feet and heads too big for their bodies, they flop around and stumble over each other and they look absolutely ridiculous at times. They eat everything they can, and would eat the very food on his plate if he didn't feed them first. They are also getting bigger – and in weird way, looser, their skin bundling up into folds, their jowls hanging loose.

They're also, thankfully, rather quiet. Aside from the occasional playful yips – eventually barks – at each other, they don't make much noise. They also, in a strange silly way, guard him when he makes camp, sitting by and keeping watchful canine eyes on the forest around him.

During the night, he sleeps half smothered by their furry, warm bodies. It's not a bad way to manage the otherwise uncomfortably chilly nights in the Mirkwood forest. And it is especially comforting on those moments when the trees feel like they're bending down at him, and when he feels so fretfully alone, and so small. There is nothing like having a big, soulful eyed dog licking at your cheek, to startle you back to reality.

Still, Bilbo is more than glad when he gets out of there – and without being attacked by spiders either. He breathes a sigh of relief and then studies the maps he'd found in Laketown and once he's sure of where he is, he sets his course northwest, and towards where he hopes Beorn's house is.

The skin changer surprises him by being already there, but it's a pleasant surprise – especially since it comes with the skin changer's welcome, and company.

"They think you fell, in the battle," the giant of a man comments, as he considers the eight ever growing dogs that now crowd his barn and who watchfully eye the other animals there. "They looked for you and when they could not find you, they thought the worst."

"Maybe for the best," Bilbo murmurs, scratching the ears of the nearest dog, who sat at his side and was keeping a level eye on Beorn. "I… didn't make many friends there."

He'd more than burned bridges, at Erebor. Thorin had almost murdered him in anger and the rest of the company had cast him aside as a betrayer. He'd been the cause of Laketown's destruction, so none of the men had been happy to see him, not even when he came to them with the Arkenstone. And Thranduil might be a great elf, but he was not a patient one, nor a forgiving one – and Bilbo had rather made a fool of him, by managing to sneak the dwarves out of his house. With his share of the treasure split between the men and the elves, his friendships broken, Gandalf vanished to who knew where… Bilbo hadn't had much reason to stick around. Hence Laketown – hence his eventual departure.

It was simply easier for his poor weary heart.

Beorn hums, looking at him and pouring him another pint of thick goat's milk. "Well, you've one here," he says and leaves it mercifully at that. He turns his eyes then to the dogs. "Where ever did you find these fine fellows?"

Beorn knows more about dogs than Bilbo does and delivers him – not without amusement – some worrying news. The dogs he'd adopted are indeed not of the small scrunched up breed he'd seen in Laketown. Those had been social companion dogs, bred to be small and, well, companionable. The ones Bilbo had adopted are, on the other hand, guard dogs.

"And guard dogs are bread, among other things, for _size_ ," Beorn added.

Bilbo swallowed. "H-how big do you think these ones will get?"

"If they grow to be under two feet, I'll be surprised.  Twenty six inches, at the very least," Beorn said thoughtfully. "And they'll weight around a hundred and thirty pounds, probably more."

Beorn checks the dogs over carefully, going over each and every one in turn. Their breed, according to Beorn, is a type of mastiff, they'd have lots of loose skin and their heads would always remain rather large but overall their fur wouldn't be too long – nothing like the fluff some of the northern dog breeds could have. Three of the pups are female, the rest are male. The pups are less than two months old – and nowhere near even _starting_ to look like the size they'd be, fully grown.

"Considering that they're all siblings, you might want to take care of the males," Beorn comments. "If you're going to keep them."

"Take care of them?" Bilbo blinked, feeling a little faint at the thought of, well, all of it.

"Neuter them," Beorn shrugged. "It'll calm their temperaments and make sure any sort of breeding won't be happening."

If he was going to keep them, he'd have to deal with that, with the runs of the three females, and of course with training them too. A hobbit of Bilbo's size couldn't really have eight unruly _big_ dogs around, no, they needed to be trained to behave or they'd run all over him. He was lucky that his dogs were of the breed they were, because it was a breed with a calm temperament and a natural instinct to protect which the dogs were already displaying around Bilbo – but there was more to having a dog than instinct.

Seeing Bilbo's utter dismay and horror at the thought of having to figure it all out, Beorn offered almost delicately. "Of course, you're welcome to stay here until you can manage."

"You sure it wouldn't be any trouble?" Bilbo asked, even while very nearly crying in gratitude.

"You're not a dwarf or an elf or a man or a wizard," Beorn said thoughtfully. "I don't know your kind too well so I don't know how I like you yet. We shall see in time, if you're trouble or not."

 

* * *

 

Bilbo ended up staying almost through the entire winter that year, and in that time, the dogs grew into their feet and jowls. Beorn neutered them on one quiet autumn evening much to their horror - and as time went on, Bilbo named each dog for what they reminded him of.

The lead dog, a male so dark grey he was almost back, had a serious sort of demeanour, so Bilbo named him Shield. Another male, who turned out to be a bit aggressive Bilbo named Axe. There were two dogs slightly more playful than the others, and he named them Bow and Knife – even if Knife was a female. Then there was Quill who was the most curious of the dogs and Flute who was always running after her. The last two he named Ladle because she ate the most and Toy because he could play with anything, even with things he ought've not.

They grew, one and all, _huge_. And not just as big as they ought to, according to Beorn, but much bigger. Whether it was because of the close proximity to Mirkwood and its magics, or because of the way Beorn tended to the earth just made everything _larger_ , didn't even really matter. Whatever the cause, they all grew to be over three feet tall, Shield growing the largest with his shoulders levelling at three feet and two inches – making the dog about an inch taller than Bilbo himself was.

They were, in a word, colossal from a Hobbit's perspective.

Without Beorn, Bilbo would've been in more than a bit of trouble with them. It was only thanks to the skin changer that Bilbo could feed them, never mind training them. Thankfully Beorn had a way with animals that stretched to dogs too, and with him at his side – and with an enormous bag of treats for enticement – Bilbo learned to manage his new, enormous companions.

It was not without its joys though. The dogs were large and a little intimidating, but they were also all of them utter sweethearts. They whined for scratches and belly rubs and would make the most mournful eyes at Bilbo whenever he scolded them, and they all piled around him for the night, forming a wall of warm protection around him. They'd always chase after sticks and balls when he threw them, and they played like pups even when they grew big. They are simply _lovable._ Their affection was open and unconditional and went a long way to repairing some of the hurt Erebor had caused.

And Bilbo had to admit, they were an enormous boost for his confidence. With the dog pack around him even the dark Mirkwood didn't seem so threatening, the few times he took the dogs out and got too close to the edge of the forest. They were just so _big_. Even for a man they would've been big, easily waist height.

"Hmm. I wonder," the skin changer hummed one late winter afternoon, while the dogs were playing in the garden, chasing each other in the snow. He whistled one of the many commands he and Bilbo had chosen for them and at once Shield came forward, circling around Bilbo and waiting obediently at his side.

"Beorn, what are you -?" Bilbo started to ask, when the skin changer unceremoniously picked him by the waist, and lifted him to Shield's back. The dog's floppy ears perked up a bit and he twisted around to stare at Bilbo with amazement, while Bilbo stared back with equal surprise.

Then they both looked up at Beorn with equal expressions, and the skin changer threw his head back, and laughed.

The rest of the winter was spent in weight training. They made sets of harnesses for all the dogs, teaching them to first bear them – and then bear weight on them. Beorn with clever fingers fashioned sets of leather pouches to be easily added and removed from the harnesses, which they taught the dogs to carry. All but Shield.

Shield they taught to carry _Bilbo_ on his back, and to take his directions.

"Mind you, dogs aren't meant for this," the skin changer said. "They aren't like horses, their backs are different. Normal dogs wouldn't be able to manage it too easily, not without potential injury. But your pack took in them a bit of the land here, strength and intelligence both. And you are a very small and light creature. Still, once you take to the road, you shouldn't push them."

"I won't," Bilbo promised.

One couldn't exactly use reigns with a dog, no matter how well trained, they were simply not suited for such things. So Shield was taught to obey the shifting of Bilbo's centre of weight – when he leaned forward, that was where Shield walked, when Bilbo leaned to the side, that was where Shield turned.

It was, Bilbo mused, the closest he'd ever gotten to being comfortable, riding.

It was also how he eventually took his leave of Beorn. They said their goodbyes that spring, when the snows had melted enough for Bilbo to take on the valleys of the Misty Mountains.

 

* * *

 

The journey over the Misty Mountains was much easier with the dogs, so much easier that it felt like a whole different mountain range this time around. Before Bilbo even knew it, he was already through the valleys, and almost at the gates of Rivendell where a very confused looking elf welcomed him and his _companions_.

"Well, this is most unusual," Elrond comments when he comes to see the ruckus Bilbo brings to his front steps. He blinks at the dogs at Bilbo's side, arching his eyebrows at Axe who scratches his ear with his hind leg, pretending disinterest. "Well," he says again, blinking again. "This is a story I would be most curious to hear."

Bilbo spends some time in Rivendell, telling Elrond about the journey and it's not so happy aftermath – happy for some, perhaps, but not for him. "Still, in the ruins of Laketown I found these fellows," Bilbo says, patting Flute's flank. "And I find their company to be much more agreeable so far than that of dwarves. So I did come away richer than I went, I suppose."

"And wiser too," Elrond comments thoughtfully, his eyes are full of sympathy. "I suppose you were right, in that you would not be missed in that company."

"Yes, I was right about that, all along and in the end," Bilbo agrees.

When he shows Elrond the dragon scales he'd pried off Smaug's hide, the Half-Elven gets a curious look on his face and then suggests an interesting sort of venture. The second week Bilbo spends in Rivendell is spend largely in the city's grand and distinctively _elven_ smithy, where Elrond's best armour smith takes the dragon scales and from them fashions Bilbo a few pieces of armour – namely, greaves and bracers, to cover what the Mithril shield doesn't.

Three of the largest pieces of Smaug's scales are used to make him a shield. It is the most ridiculously grand thing Bilbo has ever seen – a dragon scale shield, of all things. The elves definitely seem to find it amusing on his arm.

He can't deny that it would look very fine indeed on his mantelpiece, next to Sting.

But while Rivendell is a fine place, a sort of place Bilbo thinks he would love to live in for the rest of his life, it is not the place for dogs. It is too fine and too clean and too unearthly for something like eight enormous mastiffs playing ball in its archway adorned courtyards. As it is, Bilbo misses the rolling hills of the Shire and his own homey smial; so eventually he bids his goodbye to Elrond and the elves.

"You are welcome here anytime, Bilbo Baggins," the Lord of Rivendell says. "And with such sturdy steeds at your side, the journey ought not to be difficult for you."

"No, I think not," Bilbo agrees with a grin, and takes his leave.

He makes his way from there to the Trollshaws, to stop by the stone trolls and to sketch them on some paper he'd gotten from Rivendell – and then he leaves the dogs behind and braves the still lingering stink of the burrow the trolls had made. There he robs the troll trove of all of its valuables, gold and jewels and jewellery and weapons and all. The company had hid it all in the cave for later revisit – but they had Erebor with its mountains of gold now. Bilbo thinks himself perfectly justified with taking this little fraction of the journey's profits.

And if the company have any objections, well, they could just come to his smial to complain.

He doubts they ever would.

With the trove's treasures packed in various pouches carried by various dogs, Bilbo took to Shield's back again.

"Well, boys and girls," he said to the pack, patting Shield's flank fondly. "Let's go home and see what mischief my relatives have made of my smial."

He could already imagine it, the scandal of him arriving on the back of his monstrous dogs, with sword and shield and all sorts of treasure and with a whole adventure under his belt. He couldn't wait to see it.


	3. Hunger of Erebor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt by bethisalive: wingfic in hobbit’verse?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for a sort of cannibalisim? Except not? Things get eaten that probably shouldn't be eaten anyway.

"Well, that's that, I suppose," Bilbo murmured, peering down over the ledge. He'd been calling for the better part of two hours in hopes of catching the ear of a lingering dwarf, to no effect. Thorin and the company were gone, retreated back to Laketown no doubt, defeated more by their impatience than anything else.

Behind Bilbo, Erebor's secret back door stood open in the moonlight.

What a sorry way to end an adventure, Bilbo mused, turning to the door he'd barely managed to get open with his strength and luck, the key Thorin had forsaken still snug in the keyhole. All the troubles they'd gone through, all the danger and mischief and misery, and here he stood, alone, at the eve of Thorin's victory. And why? Because dwarves were too stubborn for anyone's good and when they decided they were defeated, it would take acts of god and beyond to convince them otherwise. And that was what they had decided when the door had not revealed itself at the light of the setting sun – defeated. And defeated they'd left, leaving him alone.

What in the name of their stupid stone God was he supposed to do now? This wasn't his kingdom or his home and his purpose here wasn't his own. Bilbo had been contracted to steal something, he wasn't entirely sure what – but the fact that they needed a burglar in the first place indicated that there was something to be stolen. Well, there was the treasure trove in front of him – past that door, the whole of Erebor to sneak into and steal from.  All the hopes and wishes and dreams of Thorin and his scattered folk.

And him, a hobbit, the only one there to appreciate the possibilities and mourn the stupidity of dwarves that had sent the company packing too soon.

"Save me from the stubbornness of dwarves," Bilbo muttered, walking to the door, to peer into the dark hall beyond. In the light of his little torch, he couldn't see much – and he most certainly didn't want to go in there to have a closer look. But at the same time… well, it was a mighty shame, just to pull the door shut. And yet he couldn't just stick a stone under the door and keep it open either – what if some of Thorin's enemies found it like that, and claimed Erebor for their own? A sad sorry mess that would be.

Drumming his fingers against the thick stone of the door's well carved and insidiously well hidden frame, Bilbo glanced behind himself one last time. It was almost midnight now, and the lands beyond the cliff's edge were dark with only the moon and stars to give them light. From this side of the Lonely Mountain he couldn't see the lake or Laketown, but he rather doubted many were awake there at this hour. Except perhaps thirteen dwarves, drinking themselves into a stupor in their failure.

"The door only opens on Durin's day," Bilbo muttered. If he let it shut now, it would remain shut until next year. And he had no notion to lingering in Laketown so long, waiting for the next chance.

"Oh, confound it all," he muttered, checking the sky. Almost midnight. "And confound me too," he added and then with a deep breath, stepped into the Lonely Mountain.

In Laketown the watchmen rang the bell twelve times in a steady, monotonous beat as the hour struck midnight.

In the Lonely Mountain, Thorin Oakenshield's key worked itself loose from the keyhole on the secret door and fell on the floor inside the corridor inside the mountain. Then, as Bilbo watched with dismay, the magic that had so concealed the secret entrance for so many years, tugged at the door and pushed it resolutely shut for another year.

Leaving Bilbo alone in Erebor. Alone, except perhaps for a dragon.

 

* * *

 

Bilbo approached his exploration of Erebor with all the curiosity and sneakiness of Took – and with all the care and cautiousness of a Baggins. He moved quietly but without hesitation, checking rooms but not lingering, as he slowly made his way away from the secret entrance and deeper into the mountain. He still had Thorin's map with him and with a silent apology only spoken in his mind, he turned it over and began to draw a map on the back side.

Erebor was at first glance alone huge. Bilbo had thought it would be a smallish sort of place – after all, dwarves weren't so much bigger than hobbits and so, somehow he'd expected them to keep their proportions to a comfortable hobbit size. But no. If dwarves were something, it was very decisively _not_ hobbitish in their architecture. No, they were a grand, dramatic sort of lot when it came to building – more so even than elves.

Past the secret tunnel to the hidden door, everything in Erebor was _large_. The smallest corridors were high enough for creatures twice the height of a troll – and the biggest ones, well. They were fit to house the stone giants of Misty Mountains, and serve as their ball courts. And everything, absolutely everything, was perfectly carved. The stone floors _gleamed_ with the polish of not paint or metal, but simple _smoothness of it_. At times, Bilbo had to kneel down and check to make sure that what he had under his feet was indeed stone and not _water_. The walls weren't so polished – instead, they were carved full of figures and text and symbols, all of them that sharp, angular dwarvish style, very dramatic and impressive.

Even dwarvish _houses_ were grand, inside the city, polished and carved and high enough for Beorn and all of his kin. Bilbo felt more than a little like a sneak, breaking into what he soon figured out were personal homes, but his torch was quickly running low and he needed a replenishment for it – and found it, in the shape of oil lanterns that were rather numerous in the city under the mountain.

In the light of those oil lanterns, he explored Erebor, mapping it out slowly and carefully. He found not only one residential section, but several – and between them there were numerous _streets_ with several levels, all open in the middle, which he soon figured were most likely commercial streets. Erebor's architecture followed patterns, he soon found – and the rule they followed was that of eights. Everything in Erebor was vaguely octagonal, each section – or district or whatever the dwarves had called them, way back when – was fitted into the eights of an octagon, with high open market streets marking where the sides met.

It was strange to wander there, amidst those storefronts, where long since fled dwarves had left their goods on display. There was food so rotted that it was all but dust now, fabrics that had been devoured by moths and time – and countless, countless metal crafts. Weapons and armour and hundreds of pieces of jewellery. Only, all of the jewellery was stained, some of it rusted – trinkets, made of poor iron and brass and nickel and such. They'd been beautiful when they'd been made, masterpieces all of them simply due to the craftsmanship that had gone into their making – but time had eaten at them, because their makers hadn't been able to afford more durable metals.

Bilbo lingered a time over a very clever brooch of tiny chains and curling wires that depicted Erebor itself, before moving on, something about the market street turning his stomach.

He found the famous mines of Erebor beneath the city, along with what must've been the undertaking of hundreds of dwarves – the forges. They were nothing like he imagined, and it made him dizzy to think, the effort it must've taken, to work the colossal forges. Dwarves, it seemed, were grand in things other than just architecture – they had turned their mining into _mass production_.

And they'd forsaken it while under work, too. All the forges were filled to the brim with gold, long since cooled, a fine layer of dust sitting on their mirror like surfaces.

Bilbo slept there, in the corner of the place with the big forges, nibbling what little food he had with him and wondering what it must've been like, when the forges were being worked upon. Had it been hot? As it was now, Erebor was a very chilly place to be – the forges must've helped with the heating of the city.

It must've been a sight to behold.

 

* * *

 

It wasn't until a couple of days later, when Bilbo found the legendary treasure of Erebor. It was what he had to assume was the throne hall of Erebor – mostly because there was enormous throne there, almost buried in all of the gold. It was one of the largest places in Erebor he'd seen – only the mines were larger. Easily big enough to lose the entirety of _Hobbiton_ in it.

It was also almost entirely covered in gold. There were enough coins to fill a lake with, and everywhere he looked, there were gems and golden items, goblets and plates and weapons and even one very impractical looking set of armour. There were statues and so much jewellery that no one person could've ever worn all of it without dying under the weight. There were chests peeking past the golden hills, with more and more treasure in them.

In comparison to the little trinkets he'd seen in the market streets, all of the gold in the throne room was almost… vulgar. This was where Thrór had hauled it all then, all the gold and silver and precious jewels of Erebor were here – hoarded by a mad king who did nothing with it, while the master craftsmen of his city were forced to use poorer metals in their work. It was almost vile to think on it – and Bilbo didn't care one jot about gold this way or that.

As he studied the hoard of treasure, Bilbo kept cautiously to the sides and kept his feet off the coins. He preferred scaling the walls and climbing the ceiling if he had to, rather than touching the treasure and risking it making a noise. So far he didn't see a dragon there, but then… there was really quite lot of gold in there. Possibly enough to hide a drake underneath it.

It was really an obscene amount of treasure. A whole kingdom's worth, really – if not several kingdoms'.

And Bilbo had no notion about what to do with it, or about it. The secret door way was shut and if there was another way out of Erebor, he hadn't found it yet, so it wouldn't matter if he would take some, it would only slow him down. And who would he take it to?

With his – and their – luck, Thorin and the company had already departed with their tails between their legs, the fools.

Sitting on a ledge in the wall overlooking the treasure, Bilbo considered it and his situation, scanning the room from side to side. And there, finally, he saw the dragon. It was only a tiny bit of it, but the dark red scales stood out like a sore thumb amidst all the gleaming gold, too dark and spineless by far to be part of the hoard.

So the dragon lived. Bilbo was stuck inside Erebor with a living, sleeping dragon, with no idea what to do, no way out, and no _purpose_ either because his employers had just taken off.

And he was getting hungry too, his food stores having already run low.

With a sigh, Bilbo took out his pipe and sat it on his lips; more for the comfort of the familiar gesture than for the pleasure of smoke – he'd already run out of pipe weed back before Mirkwood. Chewing on the lip of the pipe, he considered his options – and his options, when he counted them down, were exceedingly grim.

Either he found his way out of Erebor and quick too, or he starved to death. And both options seemed rather wasteful, considering all the effort he'd put into mapping Erebor and finding the blasted gold the dwarves had so wanted.

Bilbo stared at the red scales peaking from the gold hoard in a sort of weary amusement, and wondered.

Was dragon flesh edible?

 

* * *

 

Bilbo shifted the gold slowly, painstakingly slowly, crouched on the balls of his feet on top of a gold and iron chest. It had taken him almost three days and all of his food to do it silently, but there it was, Smaug's breast, uncovered and right in front of him. And there it finally was.

A hole in Smaug's armour of scales.

Bilbo had bet his very life on the tale told by Bard's children – that Girion Lord of Dale had managed to hit the dragon and loosen a scale. It had been a mad sort of hope, given existence largely by his own stubbornness – which, when had he became stubborn anyway? Was dwarvishness catching somehow? Either way, unwilling to give up on that hope Bilbo had almost literally moved mountains in order to get at Smaug's chest without disturbing the dragon. And it had paid off.

Quietly as only a hobbit can be, Bilbo turned and reached for a weapon he'd found in one of the furthermost chambers of Erebor. It was no black arrow, granted – and as it was he wouldn't have had a Dwarvish Wind-Lance to fire one from anyway. No, what he had was an actual lance, ancient looking and obviously of dwarvish make, made to fit the hand and height of a man. That, and something that he hoped to all the gods of Middle Earth he'd made right.

Well, if he hadn't, then no one would ever know – for should he fail this first attempt, Smaug would wake and most likely eat him and that would be that.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Bilbo set his weapon, priming it ready, needle sharp point aimed right at Smaug's breast. Then, backing away only as much as he dared, Bilbo took a deep breath.

Then he threw his torch at the awkwardly made construction of seventy five percent saltpetre, fifteen percent charcoal and ten percent sulphur. A recipe stolen, by his mother actually, from Gandalf.

The awkward rockets strapped to the handle of the lance caught the flames and fired up and suddenly the air was full of smoke. There was a sharp sound and the treasure trove jerked around him, coins flying in the air and hitting the walls and the ceiling with sharp clicks and hurriedly Bilbo jumped as far back as he could. There was an enormous deep snarl somewhere in the smoke and then a sound Bilbo would not soon forget. The sound of something enormous and ancient and powerful – choking.

When the smoke cleared, Smaug was no longer covered in gold. His head was revealed and it was angled downward and the dragon was staring at his breast, where the ancient lance was buried deep. For a long while Bilbo remained silent and still on top of the hoard of treasure and waited, breathless. But Smaug didn't move.

He was dead.

"Oh god," Bilbo murmured when he was finally sure of it, and fell to his knees on the gold. With the deed done, he was shaking all over and his very bones felt weak with relief and the release of anxious tension. "This is altogether too much adventure for one small hobbit."

He slept that night the sleep of the extremely exhausted on top of all the gold, tucked into a fur cloak found surprisingly well preserved in one of the grander residential rooms. It was a deep, dreamless sleep that left him exhausted even when he woke up.

The next morning, he took Sting and determinately approached Smaug's body.

By that point he was utterly starving, and beyond all reasonable caution – and the side effects of eating the flesh of a dragon never once crossed his mind.

 

* * *

 

It took Bilbo all together four weeks after Smaug's death to find his way out of Erebor. By that time, it doesn't even matter anymore.

By then very little of the hobbit he'd once been remained. His skin had gained a bronze gleam and his nails were growing dark and sharp in their nail beds. His hair was turning as red as fire, his pupils, he knew thanks to the mirror gleam of many a golden plate, were growing elongated. And on his back… Well, it was hard to tell what was happening there – but he rather doubted he was growing into a hunchback.

"Lonely Mountain," he murmured, sitting on the half destroyed front gates of Erebor, overlooking the ruins of Dale. "What an apt name this place has."

It had been a month. There was no way the dwarves would be anywhere nearby anymore. Who knew where Gandalf was, if he even cared anymore seeing that the quest had, by all appearances, failed. And what had been Bilbo's mad hope of surviving Erebor for long enough to get out of it, had proved his doom.

There was no way he could go to the Shire now, not when there was every reason to believe he'd end up growing scales soon.

Sighing, Bilbo looked around the mountain side. He was wondering about the soil and ground – he was high up in the mountains, but perhaps some wild vegetables grew there, or herbs, something. There was still plenty of Smaug left, enough to feed a hundred hobbits easily, but the meat was a touch and chewy in all the wrong ways, and not very pleasant, even with all the perfectly stored spices he'd found and tried to throw at it. He really would've liked some potatoes right about then.

"Hail, creature," a croak sounded next to him and Bilbo turned. "Are you, by chance, Bilbo Baggins of the Shire, who travelled once with thirteen dwarves and a wizard?"

It was a raven, sitting on a stone not far from him.

"Yes, that'd be me," Bilbo said slowly, not entirely sure he hadn't gone mad.

"Roäc son of Carc, chief of the ravens of the Lonely Mountain. My father was ally of the King Under the Mountain, long ago," the raven said, stepping closer and peering at him with keen eyes. "Thorin son of Thráin and Balin son of Fundin came by here, a full moon ago, and asked my kin and I, to look for you and take word should we find you dead."

"You have found me alive," Bilbo said, still not sure if he was imagining this or not. He cracked a grin he knew was too full of fang now. "Alive and victorious," he added and spread out his arms grandly. "Call me Dragon Eater, for that's what I've been doing, for the last moon."

"So I see," the raven commented dryly, but with curiosity in his eyes. "Does the rise of the Dragon Eater herald the fall of Smaug?"

"Well, I needed a dragon to eat, didn't I," Bilbo said. Then, deciding to humour his madness, he explained the whole sorry tale to the raven, from when the dwarves had forsaken their quest literally at Erebor's back door, and how he'd explored the city, and killed Smaug. And if he went on a bit too long on how hard it was to cut into dragon meat and how damn tough eating it was, well. No one but he and the raven would know.

"I think I've used all the salt and barrels in Erebor, to store Smaug's flesh," Bilbo mused, scratching at his chin with one sharp nail. "I've never been such a carnivore before. I really long for some vegetables, oh so fiercely. And fruit, oh, all the gold in Erebor for an _apple_."

The raven stared at him for a long while, as if not entirely sure what to make of it. Truth be told, Bilbo didn't know what to make of himself either.

"Where are Thorin and the others?" he asked.

"Gone. Gone back to the Blue Mountains," the raven admitted. "A moon ago they went, thinking the door shut, their quest failed."

Bilbo considered that. "I don't suppose you could take a message to them from me? Tell them I survived and take this to Thorin," he added, taking a pouch from his hip. It was spun from golden wire and carried on it the mark of Erebor - it had been the first thing on hand when he'd found it.

"What is in it?" Roäc asked, even while holding out a talon for it.

"Some scales from Smaug's cheek, and what I _think_ Thorin's company contracted me to steal in the first place," Bilbo said and shrugged. "The Arkenstone."

In the end, Roäc didn't take the Arkenstone – he very vehemently argued against it, all the while giving Bilbo the most incredulous look he'd ever gotten from a bird. But he did take a letter and the scales before taking to wing, telling Bilbo to take the Arkenstone back inside the mountain and keep it safe. Apparently, he thought it too precious to be carried across half of Middle Earth with him, and though Bilbo a fool for ever suggesting it.

After the raven had taken off, Bilbo looked at the Arkenstone as it shone and sparkled in the sunlight. Sure it was pretty and shiny, but could he eat it? No, he couldn't. A useless shiny rock, that required protection and kept him from venturing out now and finding himself some nice food to eat

With a sad sigh, Bilbo stood and turned back into the mountain. "I guess its dragon stew for me tonight."

By the time Thorin returned, he probably would've eaten enough of it to grow wings.


	4. Farspread Roots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt by the-invisble-girl: hobbits reincarnate, but dwarrows don’t.

Bilbo still remembers how it used to be, at the very start. Hobbits had been less _Hobbits_ then, and more a bastard mix of this and that, born somewhere in the midst of the Last Alliance. So many great things had been happening then, so many great and horrible deeds, fights and battles and wars, so many kings had risen and fallen, that their coming to be had been completely overlooked. But hobbits… hobbits remember.

He was one of the first of his kind, not quite a hobbit yet, but hobbit _enough_. He'd been given a dwarf name because his mother had been a dwarf, his father who knew what, some mix of man and elf. Bulur his mother had named him, _ability_ , for when he'd been born both her and the midwife had though he was horribly disfigured because of his small size and big feet and elvishly pointed ears and they'd hoped that the name would give him something to survive by.

He had survived, for nearly three hundred years, first on the edges of those battle fields until the wars had wound down and then in the ruins, spending his life shunned and ignored by men and dwarrows and elves alike for being a poor disfigured half breed. Bilbo doesn't remember all of it – he can't speak the ancient tongues common then, Khuzdul didn't remain with him nor did Sindarin, and for all that he tries, he can't regain the nimbleness of Bulur's fingers with metal wire. But he remembers it, huddling in the outskirts of camps that endured his presence poorly, making and fixing chainmail for the Big Folk. He remembers his first wife too, Edna, a human woman he'd married not much after his two hundredth birthday. She was _disfigured_ too, small and stout in stature, her mother having been a half dwarf. Their children – of which they had many – had been smaller still.

Then he'd died and then been born on the road.

By that time they'd begun finding more of their kin in the ruins of those great wars, more half breeds, some of them closer to elves or dwarrows in their lineage, but most of them having come to the same odd mixture of blood that made them small and slight and strange. And, since neither elves nor dwarrows endured the _taint_ in their bloodlines easily, closest kin to men than any other race.

Of course, no one cared about lineages and their effects then, but later, when they settled in their first home, some of their folk sat down to try and map out their lines. That was how Harfoots and Fallohides and Stoors came to be separated into their own _breeds_ of hobbits. Harfoots that were the _even_ blend, closet to men, easy to multiply, and shortest lived by far. Fallohides, with more elf in their blood than the rest, the tallest and fairest and longest lived of their lot. And Stoors who were short and stout and often bearded.

It was around that time that they began to _return_ , and theories of that were discussed too. Elvish magic, they thought. Lack of a maker, some assumed. They were not _created_ by Valar like the rest, they hadn't even been made of something else, like goblins and orcs and all the other Fell things that had been twisted into being from things more pure. Hobbits came to be because… they came to be, and no one but their parents had a hand in making them.

"And thus, the Lord of the Dead has no place for us, we can neither go to the Halls of Awaiting where the elves go, nor to the Halls of the Ancestors of men, nor do we have a place by Aulë's Forge like dwarrows do," they said. "So, when we die, we have no place to go."

And so they came back – as their own descendants, more often than not. Bilbo's second life was as Binnat of the clan that during her life came to be called Harfoot, and she spent almost her entire life on the road, roaming the lands with her kin, being turned away by dwarrows that wanted nothing to do with their kind, by men who found them useless and called them _Halflings_. Elves sheltered them a time, but offered them no home and so they wandered and wandered.

Binnat had four children in her life on the road, by a Harfoot who, unlike her, was living his first life – all their children were second births, though. That was around the time when first births were already winding down – every five children out of six had already lived a life before. And all of them remembered.

 Binnat died, just little after they found and settled in Gladden Fields.

Bilbo had four more lives in Gladden Fields, in the early Third Age of Men. They were peaceful years, learning years, as hobbits came to know themselves and each other and settled into their bones and shapes and relived lives. Somewhere in the mix of bloods that grew into a stable hobbit stock, they found their love of earth. Maybe it was the dwarven blood and love of things underground – or maybe the elven blood, and love of trees and greenery. Or maybe it had something to do with the industry of men and the need to shape and reshape and manage. Somewhere in there, the fondness of things that grew and in growing them was born – and it was very nearly universal in all for them.

Gladden fields came to be called that because that was what they _were_. They were fields where those who lived were made glad, that were _made_ glad, that bloomed from wild hills into rolling fields of food, full of gardens and orchards. Farming stopped being a necessity, and started being a pleasure and pride, and everyone grew a garden and found gladness in making it bloom. Some might've said they became simple folk then, a race of simple pleasures and simple past times. And maybe that was right.

But they were all growing into old souls then, and the excitement of the Last Alliance was quite enough for all of them.

They began shaking away their roots around that time and growing new ones. Dwarvish and mannish names began to shift and change and become hobbitish. They built their first smials at that time – mostly Harfoots did, and Bilbo, as Berylla, was one of the first to live in what would become called a proper hobbit hole. Then he lived in that same smial as Bog, Berylla's grandson. And then as Binga, Bog's niece. And then he moved out as Borto, Binga's grandson, who was among the generation that eventually fled Gladden fields when the Orcs and Goblins came.

Borto died in the Misty Mountains, with a Goblin's spear in his gut.

Bilbo eventually was born as Baddoc in Arnor, and he lived to see the negotiations with the King of Arthedain, and the kindness of the Dúnedain. By that time, people had all forgotten the birth of Hobbits and their origins. They were still called Halflings and often shunned, but men and dwarves and even elves had forgotten their mixed blood. Maybe that was the reason for kindness. Maybe not. The Dúnedain of Arthedain were still kind, in welcoming them, in letting them settle.

And so, the Shire was founded and the Shire Reckoning begun, around Bilbo's seventh life. And eventually his rebirth line settled into the family of Baggins and he was Balbo Baggins and married one of his old husbands who was then Berylla Baggins and eventually, down the line, he came to be Bilbo Baggins – his fourteenth life by then.

"Do you think it's very odd, this way we go about?" Bilbo asks once of his mother – who had been his son and daughter and cousin and grandmother and so on during his many lives.

"That depends on how you look at it," says Belladonna Baggins – who had originally been Ukrâd, the son of a half man and half dwarf and an elf, and who would become someone else after Belladonna Baggins died. "The other races I imagine would find it exhausting. Or maybe they'd be jealous of us. I know some men who would be."

"Is that why we don't tell them?" Bilbo wonders.

"That and the fact that when we originally asked of it from the Silvan Elves back when we lived in Gladden Fields, they called it _necromancy_ and called it an evil art," Belladonna says with a shrug. "I was Bub then and traded a lot with the elves. Poor Tauriel went all pale when I asked about it. Anyway, the other races – the mortal races – consider it evil. So we don't tell them."

Bilbo hums, thinking back – to those first years, on those battle fields, the evil magics that roamed the lands they'd been forced to wander. "Do you suppose it is? Evil, that is?"

"It is what it is. And we are what we are. And that is that."


	5. Works of Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompts by applespine: Hobbits liken chemistry to cooking. (In which Bilbo is a master alchemist and poisons his enemies to victory)
> 
> and
> 
> sincerelysinceresmile: Hobbit Prompt? I love fics where Hobbits are more then they seem, whether that be magic, or warrioring or something else completely. So, Hobbits, specifically Bilbo, being a total bamf and taking the dwarrows and Gandalf by surprise.

"Wait, wait, wait," Bilbo gasped as they stopped in the Forge, out of breath. "You have the ingredients for black powder here?"

"Black powder?" Thorin asked, even as Balin dashed off to find the ingredients.

"Sulfur, saltpetre, charcoal – um, blasting powder?  I'm assuming that's what you mean by flash flame?" Bilbo asked, rubbing at his aching side.

"Yes, yes," Thorin said. "We used the flash flame to light large caverns. It won't do much damage, but it might disorient the dragon, slow him down so that we go ahead with our pla – Master Baggins, where are you going!"

"You have the ingredients of black powder here!" the hobbit answered, running after Balin. "Master Balin, Master Balin, please, let me – tell me, have you any pipes here, preferably of steel?"

"Pipes?" Balin asked, even as Bilbo rushed past him to check the containers in the storage room connected to the forge. "Master Baggins we don't have the time for –"

"Please, just, trust me! I need a pipe – this wide, this long. The strongest you got. Several if you have them! And something to hold it steady, something strong, a clamp, anything," Bilbo said, even as he opened containers and checked their contents before hoisting a select few down. "Then I will require anything sharp, metal preferably, pieces – shards!" the hobbit said. "Quickly, quickly!"

The dwarves merely stared at him for a moment before Thorin glared at him. "Master Baggins –"

"Please, please, just trust me!" Bilbo said, as loud as he dared, without even looking at him. The hobbit quickly picked one at random from the side and poured its contents carelessly onto the floor, before starting to mix the elements together. "Pipe, or several, something to clamp them, and metal shards," he said. "Quickly!"

The dwarves shared a look and then Thorin cursed. Balin gave him a sympathetic look. "We haven't the fire to start the forges anyway, and without luck, the gas pipes will have corroded in this time. There might be a leak and –"

"You have gas?" Bilbo asked sharply. "What gas?"

"The natural gas that can be found under the earth," Thorin answered, frowning. "We direct it to the forges, to provide the flame."

"What type," Bilbo asked, shaking his head impatiently. "Sour, tight, coal bed? Which type? How do you extract it?"

Thorin's eyebrows shot up. "Coal bed," he answered slowly, looking surprised. "We add a quantity of water and -"

"Water depressurisation," Bilbo muttered, and turned away, to return to his alchemy. "… Right. Right," he said and nodded. "The pipes and the shrapnel - I need them. And the clamps, or whatever to hold the pipes steady, if you can find anything, will need to be mobile, I dare not do this here, not with a potential methane leak."

"Master Baggins, what exactly are you meaning to do?" Thorin asked, with an odd look on his face and some of his angry urgency gone.

"I aim to kill a dragon," Bilbo answered without even looking at him. "Pipes, shrapnel, clamps, go," he said, waving a hand.

"Shrapnel?" Ori asked with confusion.

"Shards, metal shards, anything sharp, smaller than a fist, bigger than a thumb nail! Nails if you can't find anything else, and as much as you can find." Bilbo snapped. "Go!"

They went, more moved by their confusion than understanding. Thorin and Balin found the pipes – replacement parts of the gas distribution system, which Bilbo glanced over and then nodded. "The short ones are perfect, thank you," he said. "Can you work it? I need one of the ends shut, preferably with a tapering shape to the bottom – and I need a hole cut through, very near the bottom."

"You don't ask easy thing's lad," Balin said, looking at the pipes. "We could do it if we had the heat, but like this, cold…"

"We have other pipe parts, meant to screw onto these. There should be caps too, those we might change easier," Thorin said, examining the pipes ends with the keen eye of a black smith, running his fingers along the grooves. "The hole we might drill if I can find the diamond drills."

"Please," Bilbo nodded.

"I hope you know what you're doing, Master Baggins," the dwarf answered grimly, and rushed off again.

"Is this good enough for your shards?" Dwalin asked, bringing Bilbo a bucket full of sharp, polished, triangular metal bits.

"Arrow heads?" Bilbo asked, wiping a hand across his forehead, with several bucketfuls of ready black powder in front of him.

"Aye, we made them for the guardsmen of Dale," Balin answered.

"I need something bigger too, but yes, these will do to fill the gaps," Bilbo said and looked around. "Have you fuse here? Never mind, I'll make some."

"Master Bilbo, are these good?" Ori asked, as he and Nori dragged in another couple of buckets, these full or iron nails.

"Perfect, good, that'll work well," Bilbo nodded, looking around. "I need paper, is there paper here?"

"Here, lad, design sheets," Balin said, pointing over to another table, and Bilbo grabbed the whole stack.

"Perfect – Ori, Nori, come here please, I need you to make wads of this – circular, the size of the pipe's inner diameter," Bilbo said. "Dwalin, can you mix the shrapnel – the metal? Balin, please, measure this into cupfuls – this, here," Bilbo said, grabbing a container from a shelf near him, measuring it with his fingers and then nodding. "Take some paper and measure two cupfuls of this powder onto each, and wrap it then into balls, as tight as you can. Where is Thorin?""

"Here, Master Baggins," the would be King Under the Mountain said, gasping for breath as he ran in with an armful of metal caps for the pipes. "I found these – they're meant for joining pipes of different size. Is the tapering enough?" he asked, handing one of the connection bits to Bilbo. "There's caps for the smaller parts, here," he added, handing a cap.

Bilbo checked them over. "It'll have to do," he said. "I need holes in them."

"I got the drill," Thorin assured him. "Bombur, come here, I need you to hold the pieces steady while I drill."

It took longer than any of them would've liked, but in the end, Bilbo's makeshift machines were done – along with the clamps to hold them in which Bilbo was delighted to find came with wheels for easy movement – intended to be easily shifted around a more specialised forge. As the dwarves watched, Bilbo fitted the pipes into the clamps, checking how well the clamps held.

"Good, good, it should do," Bilbo said, even as he stuffed the fuses made of black powder and paper into the holes Thorin had drilled into the pipe caps. "Now. I need a place where we can roll these in and where we can lure Smaug, somewhere where I can take aim from – a place that preferably won't collapse on me, should these things explode."

"Is that likely to happen?" Thorin asked with a scowl.

"Very likely," Bilbo said. "It won't be a big explosion, it won't bring the mountain down – but it might knock a pillar over, if there's one next to it. And kill anyone who stands near, naturally. Plus the flame is easily hot enough to ignite any inflammable gas if there's any in the air, so we need to get away from your gas pipes."

"Back to the walkways then," Thorin said.

It wasn't an easy task to get the machines there, especially without being noticed by the dragon that roamed the halls outside in search of them – but they managed. There Bilbo took a gamble with the aim of the machines and then they were fastened as well as they could be – after which Bilbo took the power Bombur had carried, and the shrapnel that Dwalin, Ori and Nori had brought in three separate buckets, and armed his devices. First the black powder, then the paper wads Nori and Ori had made, then the shrapnel on top of it, all of them stuffed as tightly as he could pack them into the pipes.

"Now I need fire, and the dragon," Bilbo said under his breath. "That and all the luck the gods can spare me."

"If the dragon comes here, you'll have your fire, and more," Thorin said in a hushed tone, even as Dwalin took a torch off his own belt and made to light it. "Are you sure these devices of yours will work? I have some idea what you meant to do, but –"

"It'll work or it'll explode in my face. Either way, it will be over very quickly," Bilbo said, wiping the sweat of nervousness and terror from his eyes. Then he accepted the torch from Dwalin and got ready. "Now get out of the way."

"May Mahal guide your hand, Master Baggins," Balin said, and the dwarves, some with some reluctance, hurried off the walkway bridge.

Bilbo took a breath and then stood as straight as he could. All together he had five haphazardly made shrapnel cannons aimed in five different directions, all of them with short fuses, standing on a slender stone bridge that might soon be blown from under him. His odds were not precisely good. Still.

"Smaug the slow, the stupid, the lazy!" Bilbo shouted into the great caverns of Erebor. "Smaug the slow witted and dull eyed, the blind and the deaf! Come to me!"

It was time to introduce a fire drake of old – and consequently, the dwarves of Erebor – to the Hobbitish art of mixing gunpowder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I have this headcanon that while rest of Middle Earth has this medieval thing going on, Hobbits have pocket watches, printing press, universal gas and water pipes and whatnot - and good enough chemistry to mix themselves some fertilizers, and other stuff. Including gunpowder. And also Gandalf is only known for his fireworks in Shire, because A,) every other race out there would think the world was coming to an end if they saw fireworks so it’s the only place where he can do them and B,) hobbits did it first.
> 
> (If I would continue this, Bilbo would probably end up introducing Dwarves to those other things, mainly the printing press and intricate mechanics of pocket watches and all)


	6. Altogether Fit and Proper Dragon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Temeraire cross over

1.

 

The first time a dragon flew over Hobbiton, Bilbo did not see it. It was a quick affair, as far as he could tell later on, never mind how his neighbours made it seem like the world had very nearly ended.

"A great big thing it was – blocked out the entire sun!" the Boffin widow told later over the cups of ale being shared around liberally in the tavern. "As big as a mountain, I dare say! With wings like the sails of some monster boat!"

"Well, I didn't see it too clear – I mean, of course I saw it!" the Grubb lad said, quickly correcting himself. "Big, very big – absolutely monstrous! And I swear on my grave, I heard it roar too – horrible, horrible roar it was!"

"Black as the night it was – with spines all over! And those claws – like spears and swords and, and… and scythe blades!"

No one had actually seen much anything, Bilbo gathered from the many stories that grew enormously with each telling – from a dark shadow to a colossal mountain like form that blocked out the sun for at least for half an hour, from a vague shape to a spiney fell creature from the worst nightmares, from a swift beast to a slow lumbering mass of death and decay.

The truth, Bilbo figured, was that a some creature – perhaps a dragon, but most likely just a bird – had flown high and right over the sun, and some fool had gotten it into his head that it was the dragon of fairytales, come to gobble them all up into its gullet. It had come and went as swift as flying things did, leaving behind naught but the increasingly ludicrous tales of its passing.

He listened to the stories the same as everyone, and ooh-ed and aah-ed over the certain death they'd surely avoided only by sheer luck alone. It made for a couple evening's entertainment at the tavern and some of the stories – of how the great beast had swooped down and nearly snatched up the Fairburn lass right up in its great, monstrous talons – were quite amusing.

But he didn't really pay it much mind, later, once he returned home – stories, after all, were just that. Stories.

 

2.

 

The second time a dragon flew over Hobbiton, Bilbo did not see it either. He was entertaining Lobelia over tea and they were having a good bit of fun sniping at each other with the most polite of all insults. "Quite clean your silverware is. It shines quite brightly," she'd say, making a show of examining her spoon. "Spotless I'd say. In fact I dare say this is exactly how it looked the last time. I dare say it doesn't see that much use, around here."

"Oh, it sees use enough, I assure you," Bilbo answered sweetly. "It's just that I _wash_ my spoons. It's a quite excellent habit to get into, washing your cutlery after use. I couldn't recommend it enough."

"Oh, well, I suppose one does need a hobby," she allowed gracefully and looked around with an absolutely artful little sniff, just on the right side of disgusted. "And with no wife to mind your cleaning – or any lady of the house at all… I suppose you have to fill the lonely hours somehow."

"Yes, no ladies in this smial, I'm afraid," Bilbo answered, smiling at her. "No ladies what so ever."

Lobelia could be a handful when she had the mind, but around Hobbiton she made the best sort of tea company – there was never a dull moment, between her sly insults and eventual attempted thievery. They were in the middle of a well-rehearsed bit about chimneys and pipes – Lobelia alternating between insinuations of Bilbo's cleanliness or lack there of concerning them – when the shadow came and passed and both of then quite missed it.

Later there were of course more stories. Though at first they were much the same, no one much cared to listen to the same stories all over again, so they were changed now. The dragon had been carrying something in its talons now. A fair Elven maiden, a great casket of gold, a jewel as big as a boulder – it changed with each story.

In one particularly good story, the dragon was carrying a casket of finest mead from a distant land and was taking it to his lady dragon to woo her – Bilbo quite liked that story, for the story teller, old Longfoot, was a masterful story teller and did the best voices.

The only true thing was that a large shadow has been seen over Hobbiton, flying from west to east – where before it had gone from east to west. So, if it was the same creature, it had come and now it had gone and that was quite likely it.

 

3.

 

The third time a dragon flew over Hobbiton, Bilbo did not see it. Not before it landed right over his hill, anyway – and even then it took him about ten minutes to take full notice. He only did, because Old Grandma Pott began to shriek outside like a goat gone mad.

When Bilbo went outside to see what the fuss was about, it was only to see the most peculiar sight of all his neighbours running down Bagshot Row like all their smials were on fire and someone had just announced a free for all feast in the Hobbiton central square. The whole Pott Family was running, Mr. Pott carrying Old Grandma Pott almost over his shoulder, his wife with both of their faunts under her arms – the Gamgees were already halfway down the hill and only picking up speed. The Sackvills, the strangest of them all, were carrying pots and vases with them as they went.

Bilbo stared after them in astonishment, and then he heard it. It was just an inhale and an exhale, but the depth of them instantly conveyed the sheer immensity of the creature who was breathing – like a bellows, only a hundred times bigger. Then a low, masculine voice spoke behind and above Bilbo.

The words were utter nonsense, not a single word spoken familiar to Bilbo. But the fact that they were spoken at all – and by a voice that was easy to tell did not belong to any Hobbit, or a Man or even an Elf, made the hair on Bilbo's feet stand on end.

He turned, looked up, up above his green door, above the doorframe, up above the grassy hill and finally, up to the dragon. He looked, his mouth opening in a whisper or scream or prayer or for nothing at all, and he stared in utter incomprehension at the enormous beast sitting on top of his smial, tail coiled over it's front talons.

It was black, he thought. Black as the night, even. So some of the stories had been spot on. There were no spines, however – none whatsoever. Quite smooth the dragon looked, except perhaps around the head.

The dragon spoke again, its tone almost polite in its inquisitiveness.

And then Bilbo fainted.

 

4.

 

Bilbo woke up with a concerned dragon peering down at him, and for a moment he gibbered nonsense at it, quite sure that he'd be eaten any moment. He wouldn't make as much as a mouthful for the dragon – but there were many Hobbits around – or had been anyway. Quite enough to fill even this beast's stomach and Bilbo would be the appetiser that opened the great Hobbitish meal.

Except, the dragon sat back, looking – if it could be believed – relieved. And then it spoke _again_ , speaking utter nonsense at Bilbo like he was supposed to understand it, and then it looked at him expectantly, like waiting for his answer.

Quite addled, Bilbo said, "I'm quite sorry, but I'm afraid I don't understand a word you're saying!" like that was any sort of thing to be saying to a _dragon_. He winced and swallowed a whimper and smothered the urge to curl into a ball – because being in a ball would make him a single easy swallow and he'd rather die being torn into bits by the dragon's fangs, than being suffocated in its stomach, if he got to choose.

The dragon did not eat him, though. It looked at him and muttered something and then said something – in what was perhaps a _different_ language, nonsense though it too was. And when Bilbo only shook his head – more in disbelief about his own continued survival than about the language – it tried a third. And then a _fourth_.

Around the fifth nonsense language, Bilbo began to notice things about the dragon. It was nothing like the dragons he'd seen drawn in books or depicted on tapestries – there were no spikes or spines or horns, just a sort of ruff around the head that looked more like a set of fins than anything else. Or maybe lady's fans. Fan-like fins, or something of that nature. And the dragon's eyes were quite intelligent – and not evil, as far as Bilbo could tell, just a bit frustrated and perhaps curious.

It was somewhat scarred, though – which Bilbo strangely enough found comforting. The puckered scars on its chest were strange – what made a round wound? And one so large too? But the slashes here and there looked quite like something a sword or another dragon's claws could've made. That, at least, seemed in line with what he knew of dragons.

Then the dragon huffed in frustration and Bilbo braced himself to being eaten or bathed in flames or possibly squashed, and the dragon said something again.

"Temeraire," it said, lifting a front leg and nudging at its chest. "Temeraire," it repeated. "Temeraire."

 

5.

 

"Oh," Bilbo said, after far too long - embarrassingly long. "Uh. Bilbo Baggins, at your service."

The dragon lowered his talon and attempted to repeat it. "Uhbilb baaggis atur sorvis –"

"Bilbo," the Hobbit interrupted, and almost swallowed his tongue in horror – what was he thinking, interrupting a _dragon_?!

"Bilb- Bilbo. Bilbo," Temeraire repeated until Bilbo nodded at the correct pronunciation. The dragon shifted where he sat, looking quite pleased with himself, and then tried another word. "Baaggis?"

"Baggins. Baggi _n_ s," Bilbo said, emphasising the end.

"Baggins," Temeraire mouthed the word a several times until he got it right. "Bilbo Baggins. Temeraire," he added and nodded again in satisfaction.

"It is… nice to … meet you?" Bilbo answered blinking and not quite sure what was happening anymore. The dragon was now sitting on Bilbo's lawn, more or less – and also on Bilbo's currently crushed fence, trampled flowers, quite a bit of his utterly ruined prize tomatoes, also on the road that had been just beyond his fence, when he'd still had a fence. And despite the general destruction, he didn't seem to be eating Bilbo – or anyone else.

Bilbo had just exchanged names with a dragon. And the dragon seemed to be pleased with it. And also the dragon wasn't _eating him_. In fact he seemed almost… polite. For a dragon. Probably.

"Uh," Bilbo said, searching for something to say or do and managing to find nothing that quite fit the situation. It was completely understandable, of course – there'd never been a dragon on his lawn before. And he'd never heard of a dragon that was polite and exchanged names with people, rather than eating them. "Uh," he said again and fell back to what he knew and could trust in. His manners.

"Would you like some tea, Temeraire?" he asked.

 

6.

 

How Bilbo got inside his smial without being eaten he wasn't sure, but Temeraire seemed fine with him going in so that was… good, probably. Once inside he took a moment to feel utterly terrified and woozy and for a moment he contemplated fainting again – but that would probably be bad in this situation, even if he was inside now and besides… he'd promised tea.

And he was a Hobbit of his word, when it came to tea.

If nothing else, going through the motions of brewing a cup settled his nerves. He stood by the stove swaying on his somewhat wobbly knees and wondering how he was still alive. It was quite unbelievable, wasn't it, that he was still unscathed, what with a dragon on his lawn and all. Good luck – or a very good dragon. Possibly both.

He reassured himself that he was indeed still alive and not experiencing his final death dreams, until the kettle whistled and then he paused in dismay. He'd set out two cups, and boiled a kettle full of water for the tea. A _kettle_ full.

Like a kettle would be anywhere near enough for a _dragon –_ never mind a Hobbit sized teacup!

He though over all his containers and came to the conclusion that the bathtub would probably be the only thing big enough for Temeraire to use for a tea cup. And he couldn't bring that out, now could he? As it was, it would spend all of his tea leaves, - no, they probably wouldn't be enough, not for a proper, strong cup of tea!

The next best thing was his big cooking pot – the one he brought out only whenever at least a dozen guests were to be fed. It was not quite big enough for a dragon, but… it was the biggest he had.

So, with some effort, Bilbo brought it out, filled it with water, and prepared the biggest, grandest cup of tea he'd ever made in his life. He was starting to feel quite silly by the time the water had boiled – for one, he was taking a good long while with the task and any guest would've been irritated by now and for two… he was making tea. For a _dragon_.

A dragon who probably only had the taste for Hobbits and Men and Elves and whatnot. Good grief.

Still, the cup-pot of tea was done, so there was nothing to it. Worse thing than going back on one's word about serving tea was to _waste_ tea, after all, especially once it was already made. So, balancing a tray with his own kettle and cup on one hand, and laboriously lugging the cooking pot of tea with the other, Bilbo headed back outside.

He was perhaps hoping against hope that the dragon would've flown off, but no one was to know.

Temeraire was still there, of course – now sitting mostly on the road and the ruins of the fence and no longer on Bilbo's flowers and tomatoes. There was a somewhat chagrined look on the dragon's long face – he was even hanging his head a bit. It was just another strange thing in a growing litany of strange things about this event.

"I must beg your pardon – I don't quite have cups for a dragon, so," Bilbo grunted and set the cooking pot in front of Temeraire. "Tea," he said, pointing at it.

"Th – tii?" Temeraire answered dubiously and leaned down to sniff at the pot. Then he put out a narrow forked tongue and tasted it.

Temeraire's eyes brightened with obvious delight. While Bilbo watched, the dragon drank the tea slowly, humming happily at every careful, clumsy sip he took. Bilbo drank his own tea with him, not knowing what else to do in the situation – surely, no one had ever enjoyed his tea this much. Even Lobelia, in her most devoted of fake pleasantries, never bothered trying to express any sort of pleasure over the tea, fake or otherwise.

It was odd and quite nice and warmed Bilbo to the dragon quite thoroughly.

"Tea," Temeraire pronounced with great satisfaction once the cooking pot was empty and they shared a moment of understanding that needed no words.

 

7.

 

Then there were words – there were many words. Bilbo wasn't entirely sure how he got drawn into it or how it even began, but somehow he ended up teaching Temeraire Westron – right there, on his lawn, with the cooking pot still warm from the tea.

"No," he said when Temeraire shook his head. "Yes," when he nodded. "Up, down, left, right," when the dragon pointed his head to each direction. "Door, chair, fence, plant, stone," and so on and so on, at an increasing pace with Temeraire mouthing each word until he had it down and then moving on.

Bilbo smoked a pipe to try to settle his nerves further – and then had to name it of course and his leaf too, and his matches – while the dragon went over everything in sight that could be easily pointed out. At first it was a strange, strange thing and Bilbo had to wonder if Lobelia perhaps had gotten to his tea stores and added something funny in – but as it went on he warmed up to it.

"Temeraire," he interrupted the dragon, as Temeraire nosed a bucket in the corner of the garden. "Temeraire. What is this?" he said and held out a pipe. "This is a pipe." When the dragon looked at him in interest and said nothing, Bilbo repeated it. "What is this?" he said, turning the pipe in his hand, this way and that, examining it with great exaggeration. "This is a pipe."

The dragon got it as quickly as he had gotten everything else so far. "Bilbo, what is this?" he asked, nudging the bucket and then the broom, nosing gently at the window frame, at now lopsided tomato plant. Then, "Bilbo, how do you say this?"

The speed of Temeraire's learning probably should have been somewhat alarming. He shrugged his awkward pronunciation and strange accent off like it was water on a duck's back, and soon he was asking Bilbo, "How many is this?" in a perfect Hobbiton accent. It should've been alarming – if Temeraire had been a Hobbit, it would've been downright unnerving.

But Temeraire was a dragon, so his learning abilities, though they proved to be considerable, were somewhat less important. When compared to the fact that he was a dragon.

The lesson lasted through Bilbo's first pipe, and his second too which he started because it was proving to be a nice afternoon and why not. Birds were starting to cautiously sing again, the wind was warm and pleasant and the afternoon sun shone brightly on them, not a single cloud in sight. And even his neighbours were, for once, minding their own business and not bothering with him any of their gossip or how-do-you-dos.

Mainly because they'd all fled the hill, of course, but that wasn't important.

Temeraire was a pleasant sort of dragon, Bilbo decided – and an excellent student too as far as Bilbo could judge it. He'd never taught anyone before, and to have his first student be so eager and so fast was quite heartening. So he shook away the last of his unease about the enormous black dragon sitting on his ruined front garden and decided that Temeraire could stay for supper, if he wanted to.

"Hmm," he hummed while Temeraire nosed at the flowers, repeating their names to himself. "I do believe I need to go into town and buy some meat."

 

8.

 

He left Temeraire to puzzle out what to ask next, and after fetching his coin, a nice coat and his walking stick, Bilbo headed down Bagshot Row, intending to buy some mutton, or perhaps some beef. Well, not some – quite a lot of it in fact. Cooking it wouldn't be a problem, thankfully – his mother had had queer tastes and sometimes quite enjoyed meat grilled over an open fire out doors, so there was a cooking pit in the back garden. Setting it up for cooking as much as it would take to feed a dragon would take some time, but he was confident he could do it.

Temeraire's eager mood had infected him now and he was feeling quite good about trying new things – so much so that when the people of Hobbiton, huddled hidden in nooks and corners of what few stone houses they had around the town, screamed at the sight of him, he laughed it off.

"It's the ghost of old Bilbo, come to haunt us!" someone gasped. "He blames us for leaving him to be dragon food!"

"Be gone foul being, leave us at peace!"

"Oh don't be daft," Bilbo answered with a snort. "I'm not dead at all. Whatever are you lot doing, huddling there like that. You all look quite silly."

There was a moment of silence and then, "There's a dragon about!" someone shouted at him. "Are you mad?!"

"The dragon's made him go mad," someone whispered.

"How are you not dead?" That voice Bilbo could immediately recognize – Lobelia. She was cautiously inching her way out of the shelter of the Blacksmith's, her eyes screening the sky nervously. "How come the dragon didn't eat you right up? Did you escape?"

"I didn't," Bilbo answered, considering her and the other Hobbits and deciding he had quite enough of this nonsense. "You can all stop this nonsense. Temeraire is quite civilised for a dragon – he won't be eating any of you." Of this he was now sure, less thanks to Temeraire having said so or anything, and more due to the fact that there was something quite Hobbitish about the dragon, and he was quite sure no Hobbit would ever eat another.

Lobelia just stared at him in disbelief.

"Yes," Bilbo said. "He will be eating something, though, which is why I'm here."

"You're not feeding me to a dragon!" Lobelia almost shrieked.

"Or my sister! Even if she's a virgin, she's no dragon food!"

"Who're you calling a virgin, you –"

"My children won't be eaten either! I will stab you with this here knife if you try to take my daughters!"

There was a moment of utter cacophony as all the women of Hobbiton took their opportunity to shout at him. Bilbo let them – more out of alarm than any sort of charity, really – slowly inching away from all of them, especially from Madam Goodchild who had a wicked looking butcher's knife in hand.

"Well?" Lobelia demanded. "What do you mean to do, Bilbo?"

"I… was going to visit the butcher's," Bilbo answered uneasily. "And buy some meat. Beef perhaps, or mutton, or both – maybe some chicken, to top it off…"

She narrowed her eyes and folded her arms. "So if we feed the dragon, it won't eat us."

"Well… sure, I suppose," Bilbo said slowly. "Honestly, he's not going to eat any of us anyway, I'm sure, but… yes."

Mainly he just wanted to be a good host and treat his guest properly, unexpected though Temeraire was. Bilbo prided himself on treating his guests – especially the unexpected ones – well, and he wasn't going to let the fact that this one just so happened to be a dragon stop him.

"Well then," Lobelia said and turned to the others. "You heard him. We pay him tribute and he will leave us alone!"

"Hooray," someone cheered feebly from his hiding spot under a cart.

"And maybe once he's fed, he'll move off!" Lobelia shouted.

"Hear, hear!" someone else said, with slightly more cheer.

Lobelia struck a pose and pointed her parasol like a sword. "To the Butchery!"

 

9.

 

Bilbo ended up returning to Bag End with a cartload of food. The cart was donated to the purpose by Farmer Maggot – who'd traded the cart for Bilbo's assurances that the dragon would not be burning his fields down. Everyone had pitched in to buy the food which had then been used to fill the cart. No less than three handsome sheep, perfectly skinned and gutted and ready for roasting, and quite a bit of cow, and no less than eight chickens, all of which had been butchered just for the purpose. The rest was various vegetables and such which Bilbo meant to use to make stuffing for the mutton and perhaps a stew.

He suspected that his neighbours were suspicious of him taking advantage of the situation to fill his own pantry up with their coin, but he quite did not care. Dragon or no, Bilbo meant to feed Temeraire properly, with proper Hobbitish dishes.

Temeraire perked up the moment he saw the food – his ruff, which was what Bilbo had decided to call the fan line fins around his head, went up in alert. "Is this Temeraire food?" he asked eagerly.

"This is food for you, yes," Bilbo agreed and then aimed the cart and its terrified pony to follow Bagshot Row to its end and to the side path that circled around the top of the hill, and to the back garden. Temeraire looked after him and then jumped up and to his wings that spread out so wide and enormous, that the entire top of the hill was shadowed beneath them. He then gracefully glided after Bilbo, landing in the back garden just ahead of Bilbo.

The dragon downright gasped in delight when he realised Bilbo meant to cook the food for him. He then helped Bilbo set up the fire pit for the roasting of the lambs, helping Bilbo set up the poles and choose a better skewer from those wood poles available. Then, as Bilbo fetched an oiled table cloth to spread over the garden table so that he could go about the food preparations, Temeraire carried the firewood over in his great talons.

It was without doubt the biggest meal Bilbo had ever made. He made a vegetable and beef mix with some of his left over bread and such thrown in, and stuffed the lamb with it before throwing in some spices setting them to roast, all three of them in a row. Then he had Temeraire fetch the large cooking pot and set up another fire pit for that, and began to prepare an enormous soup of the leftover meat and vegetables, which would do well for an appetiser.

It all took an enormously long time, but that was fine – they filled the time going over some more words and Temeraire seemed to have the best sort of time, just keeping an eye on the roasting food. It was quite possibly the happiest Bilbo had ever seen anyone be in years.

"Bilbo is good," Temeraire decided happily, once the stew was done and Bilbo offered it to him – after taking a small bowl of it for himself, of course.

"I'd like to think so," Bilbo said, quite pleased as he sat down by the table where he'd prepared the food and where he could keep an eye on the roast. "You are very nice too, Temeraire."

"I'd like to think so," the dragon repeated with an amused rumble, and then went about eating the soup with great enjoyment.

As they waited for the roast, they went over more words – in fact, they went over sentences, Temeraire gobbling them up as easily as he had the food. The dragon was steering the tutelage more now, wishing to learn specific words and sentences. Bilbo let him, as it was quite obvious now that Temeraire had more experience in learning than Bilbo had in teaching.

It all eventually culminated in what Bilbo surmised had been Temeraire's first words to him, when he'd first seen the dragon on top of bag end.

"Bilbo," Temeraire said, looking away from the hill and over the fields and forests of the Shire that spread out below them. "Where is this?"

 

10.

 

Temeraire, Bilbo soon realised, was hopelessly lost. That's why he'd been flying around the Shire in circles, going back and forth in a fruitless search of familiar land marks – or someone to ask about directions. Bilbo, it turned out, was the only Hobbit that had not run away screaming and so Temeraire hadn't realised until then that no one could even understand him in these parts.

Of course the reason Bilbo hadn't run away was because he had fainted, but they both ignored that.

Instead Bilbo went inside and fetched his parents' maps from the study, spreading them out over the garden table for Temeraire to see. "This is the Shire," Bilbo said while the dragon peered down. "We are here," he pointed to Hobbiton on the map.

With the lovely scent of roasting mutton in the air, Bilbo and Temeraire perused the maps, Bilbo naming all the lands he knew and telling little about them. "Here is Rivendell – I hear it's close to the Misty Mountains, here. They call it Imladris too, I think – that's Elvish, I suppose. It's where the Elves live, you see. Well, some of them," and "The Blue Mountains here, Ered Luin they're called too. Dwarves live there."

The further they went, the more anxious and serious Temeraire got. It didn't take much guessing to realise that Temeraire knew none of the lands and places Bilbo tried to explain. At first Bilbo wondered if it was because the dragon had never seen maps – but apparently Temeraire had seen them before.

"I… hear dragons can sleep a long while," Bilbo said slowly. "Were you asleep and… uh… missed all of this?"

The dragon let out an unhappy noise. "I do not know," he said, hanging his head. "I'm… lost."

How he'd gotten lost, he couldn't tell Bilbo. He wasn't even sure where he'd been before he got lost – he named several strange names where he might've been, but he wasn't sure. He was looking for a place called Ingland – or Britin – or perhaps Eyrop. He was looking for many places – anything, Bilbo figured, that might be familiar. And as far as Bilbo's maps went, nothing was.

After they'd figured out that Bilbo's maps were no help to Temeraire, they sat for a moment pondering before Temeraire asked, "What is Elves?"

"Oh," Bilbo said, looking at him in astonishment. "You _really_ aren't from these parts at all, are you?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This wasn't actually a prompt but this is best place I have for misc stuff.


	7. Far From Over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of timetravel. Spoilers for Battle of the Five Armies

They were coming to the trollshaws now. Bilbo wasn't sure whether it was making his steps lighter or heavier, how close they were to the Shire now – almost there. Just a week or two more at their pace and he'd reach Bag End and…

"We could've stayed at Rivendell longer, you know," Gandalf commented, looking around them. "There was no hurry."

"No – but if I'd have stayed longer, I might've grown roots again," Bilbo sighed, but with a smile. He'd stayed almost two months at the Woodland Realm – this time visible for all eyes to see – and another month at Beorn's house just enjoying the simple, soft living there. Two weeks at Rivendell seemed like a small thing in comparison – but Rivendell was so much easier to get lost in. Get stuck in.

So close to home, it seemed like meaningless dilly dallying.

"Hmm," was Gandalf's only comment at that and they fell into comfortable silence again – the silence they found themselves in for most of the journey. While Bilbo was a bit more likely to randomly burst out into song now – dwarven influence there, no doubt – they weren't near so fond of noise as those members of the company left in Erebor, now. Silence could reign for days and hours and be pleasant.

Still. The Shire was close now and maybe Bilbo was dragging his feet a bit.

"We need to stop by the troll cave," he said, looking around and trying to recall how far they were from the ruins of the farm where they'd weathered the night – where their ponies had been stolen. It had been such a hectic night, they'd all been turned about and the orcs and wargs certainly hadn't helped. He had no idea how far they were from the troll cave.

"Yes, yes," Gandalf said. "We're not far now, I assure you. Shall we make camp in the farm?"

Bilbo hesitated only a moment and then nodded. "Yes, why not," he said, though he wasn't so sure he liked the idea. Still, he'd probably regret it later, not staying there and taking in the memories. While he had many mementos with him – the company had shackled him with his own weight's worth of them, even – it was the actual intangible memories he held dearest.

"Will the trolls still be there?" Bilbo asked thoughtfully. "I would very much like to see them again."

"Surely they'll be there," Gandalf chuckled. "Nothing but a chisel and a hammer and quite bit of industrious stonecraft will move them now. Would you like to make camp there?"

Bilbo laughed out right at that. "Fun though it would be, I don't think I could stomach sleeping with trolls looming over me, stone or not," he said. "But perhaps supper. It's not an every Hobbit that can say he supped with trolls."

"None that were not the supper themselves, I imagine."

They lapsed into silence again, and after a while Bilbo begun to hum – a yet another song was coming out, the words and melodies slowly figuring themselves out in his head and throat. Gandalf listened to it without a comment for a moment before shifting his staff and then striking a soft beat by slapping his wrist with his fingers, helping him along.

He had some of the song down when they finally reached the ruins of the farm. It was more or less how he recalled it – if a little less trampled by dwarven boots, and little more overgrown. Bilbo spent a moment trying to look for where they'd made their fire, last time around, but it was too grown, the grass and weeds having taken over everything in his absence.

"There's still some light left, if you want to pop in the troll cave," Gandalf commented, examining the crumbling walls of what might've been a house. "It should make an evening's entertainment, examining whatever treasures you find there."

"A fine idea," Bilbo said with a nod. "It was that way, yes?"

Gandalf pointed him the right way and Bilbo then set out again, not even bothering to unburden himself of his pack. It was easier to keep going than it was to stop and then set out again, he found – in all things as much as in walking. And by this point, he was getting rather good at walking.

He passed the trolls by with a moment's pause, examining their frozen faces with a hint of a smile – the memories here were all jumbled up, fear and surprise and dismay all mixed up. But they were still fond – fond and sad. "Oh, Kíli," Bilbo murmured, looking at the spot where, a life time ago, a young dwarf had foolishly rushed to his rescue.

He continued on, though – it was getting darker now, and he'd need every bit of the light to get back. Still, he took out a torch from his pack just in case, getting the flint and tinder ready. He'd need them in the cave if nowhere else.

The troll warren was as overgrown as everything else, with new vines hanging over the entrance. It smelled about the same though – a year wasn't enough to rid a hole of a troll's stink, it seemed. Bilbo lit the torch and waved it about to get rid of the worst smell, and then went about uncovering the treasure.

Here, Glóin had buried at least one small chest of treasure – treasure which, coincidentally, Bilbo had claimed as his own at Erebor. The company had wished to give him a chest or two of Erebor's gold to take with him, but Bilbo had begged off. For one, Gold made heavy carrying for such a long journey. And for two…

The less he'd see of Erebor's gold, the better. Preferably, he would not ever lay his eyes on a single coin – and that, Bilbo thought, was the best future he could ask for.

No, stolen troll treasure was quite enough for him. So long as it was still here and not raided by some industrious adventurer sometime in the last year.

As Bilbo dug around the cave, trying to remember where Glóin had buried the treasure, he began to hum again. "… And though we pass them by today," he hummed and then frowned as the melody came out wrong. No, lower this time. "Tomorrow we may come this way…"

Why was it that even songs with happy lyrics came out sounding so mournful when he tried to sing them?

"There you are," Bilbo muttered as he finally uncovered a corner of the buried chest. It took a moment's work to dig it out and another to pick the lock Glóin had fashioned on it – with all respect to Glóin, his locks were no match for Nori's lock picks.

It was, as he remembered, full of treasure. The coins were strange and ancient and the jewellery large, made for Men and Elves. But it was all very valuable, and quite enough for a bachelor Hobbit to manage. He'd have to figure out who to trade them with, whom to sell them to – no one in Hobbiton would have the money to buy them, he thought. Perhaps someone in Bree would buy them for a right price.

Bilbo closed the chest again and then looked around himself. There was plenty of other treasure about, albeit somewhat less shiny than the gold and gems. Old swords and spears and other weaponry, things they had not brought out with them last time. To think that the swords Orcrist and Glamdring had came from this place – and his own Sting too. With treasures of that magnitude here…

"Now what else might I find here?" he asked, waving the torch over the hoard of weapons. "What other ancient treasures have been hidden here?"

There were swords aplenty, of course – though all of them of lesser quality than Orcrist and Glamdring, most of them rusted. There was a nice looking battle axe, not dwarven perhaps but in good condition. It was too big for Bilbo to bother with, though – would make very heavy carrying, on top of the gold.  There was a little pouch tied to the handle of the axe, though, and with a curious hum Bilbo reached to unfasten it.

It was so old that the leather string it was tightened with almost crumbled in his fingers, and the pouch itself was stiff and hard with age. Bilbo had to break it open with his smaller all purpose knife to get it open at all – and as he did, a glittering thing fell onto his palm. At first he thought it was a gemstone, like oh so many he'd seen in Erebor. And it _was_. But it was also something else.

It was a crystal, carefully shaped and crafted so that it remained unbroken, even with a hole in it. A ring, carved out of glittering gem stone.

"What a queer thing," Bilbo muttered, lifting it up and holding it against the light of the torch. It shone through the crystal ring in many colours. Bilbo had seen many a pretty gem and jewellery in his time and this one seemed somehow ostentatious. Why would anyone ever wear such a thing?

Maybe it was made for a child. It was quite small.

Almost Hobbit sized in fact.

With another hum of the song he couldn't get out of his head, Bilbo shifted a bit and then eased the crystal ring onto his finger. It fit quite snugly and looked absolutely ludicrous. "Well," he said. "You're a pretty thing to be sure, and I imagine many with the hearts of magpies have loved you. I don't think you quite fit on my finger though."

As he went to remove the ring, he couldn't help but chuckle at the thought of it having been found the last time he'd been there. Some of the dwarves might've brought it along even – it was quite small after all. Easy enough to carry.

Not that it would've made any difference.

"Well then," Bilbo muttered, pocketing the ring absently and turning around to fetch the chest of treasure and make his way back to camp. There was a fire it be made and food to be cooked – and Gandalf, great though he was in so many ways, was no cook.

The chest wasn't where he'd set it, though.

And the hole he'd dug it from was gone, the patch of earth where it had been completely covered up and looking undisturbed.

Bilbo frowned at the sudden absence of his recent labours and then looked around. Just then, the stench of troll assaulted him, heavier than before – too heavy to be borne. Gagging, he quickly tugged his scarf up and to cover his mouth and nose, waving his torch around. Had he kicked something up, uncovered some hidden burrow of old troll waste or –

There was a pile of treasure not far from him, and a chest beside it, sitting on its side, mostly empty. Not far from them, there were the broken bones of animals and what looked like… oh. The body of a man – or what little remained of it. A farmer, judging by the single boot hanging onto his single, long since rotted foot.

It was… far too fresh to have been killed over a year ago.

And Bilbo was absolutely certain it hadn't been there at all a moment ago.

"What in the…" he murmured and then stopped as the earth beneath his feet vibrated. Once, twice, trice – footfalls. Bilbo arched his foot a bit, so that the more sensitive toes were more heavily pressed against the earth and yes – they were footsteps, and far too large to Gandalf's.

They were coming closer.

Without a moment's hesitation, Bilbo dived behind a pile of high rocks, to hide. Recalling his torch, he quickly brought out the metal extinguisher from his pocket and slapping the cone shaped cup over the torch head. The fire went out instantly, and the cave plunged into darkness.

"… Get the spices, Bill," an eerily familiar voices muttered. "Get that bag of salt, Bill, get the ash, Bill, get the wood and the stones and get the damn mountain while you're at it. It's like I'm a damn servant here…"

The lumbering steps had reached the cave and as Bilbo stared at the darkness in mindless confusion, the troll pushed himself into the cave, grunting as he did. "What have some dirty leaves and bit of ash to do with cooking, Bert, is what I want to ask," he muttered to himself. "Its mutton and mutton's mutton no matter what you put innit, ain't it? Spices, my arse. Now where is that sack…"

As Bilbo listened, the troll rummaged around the corner of the cave, coming out with triumphant grunt and then heading off again, muttering some more. Soon Bilbo was alone in the dark cave, opening and closing his mouth in sheer bafflement. Troll in a troll cave wasn't really that surprising – even if they ought to be all stone and what were the chances of another party of trolls making their way to the same burrow?

"Bill, Bert," Bilbo mouthed. "Mutton. _Mutton_."

It couldn't be.

Had the spell that turned the trolls to stone weakened, somehow? Were the trolls alive again? But… if that was it, surely the trolls would be mad, furious with rage – and besides, it had still been light out, the last Bilbo had seen. Had the sun set yet? Even so though, the trolls had frozen mid battle, hadn't they? For them to be cooking…

For a moment Bilbo turned it over in his mind. Then he shook his head and quickly got up. Whatever the cause, staying in an active troll cave wasn't the best idea. Quickly he glanced at the treasure and then scooped up some of the coins, bringing out his own money pouch and filling it to brim, so tight that the coins were hard packed and couldn't move – couldn't clink against each other. Shoving the pouch inside of his coat, he headed towards the cave mouth, intending to sneak out.

Thankfully, the troll Bill was lumbering away again. Bilbo quickly hid in some bushes, pulling his hood up to keep his hair and lighter skin from giving his position away in the otherwise dark bush – and no, it wasn't light out at all. In fact it was quite dark, well into the night actually. And the air was different somehow.

It took him a moment to realise that it was the season and the plants – still growing and vibrant with the energy of the early spring, rather than well settled into full summer growth. For a moment he stared at one of the branches of the bush he was hidden in – the leaves there were in shadow and had barely grown past their buds.

Then, a growing apprehension in his heart, Bilbo shifted on his feet and went to follow the troll.

And there it was. The camp, three trolls – and number of penned up ponies. "Mutton yesterday," said one of the trolls, the one stirring the enormous pot on the fire. "Mutton today, and blimey, if it don't look like mutton again tomorrow."

Bilbo gaped at them, as they griped about the food. "Can't be," he mouthed, silent more due to the fright than caution because this… this… whatever _this_ was, it was terrifying. " _Can't be_."

Then he saw something much worse than shire ponies and mountain trolls from his past. Something much more terrifying. _Himself._

A Bilbo Baggins fresh from the Shire, his red velvet coat still spotless and tidy, the hair on his feet still soft and clean. He looked… wealthy, in a way Bilbo himself hasn't felt in a long while. Well fed, well washed, well groomed, neat and polished and still nice and proper. A Gentlehobbit, if there ever was one.

He looks like an utter stranger to Bilbo, this… _other_ _one_. Himself, from over a year ago. A year and lifetime and so many hardships and sorrows and deaths.

And he's sneaking towards the ponies – like Bilbo himself had, over a year ago.

Without any hesitation, Bilbo pushed quickly forward, sneaking through the underbrush on silent feet of a hobbit trained by experience and the keen eyes of one Captain of the Guard in the Woodland Realm. As he tugged his hood down further and his scarf up higher, Bilbo didn't make a single sound as he snuck up behind this strange apparition of himself.

Then he grabbed him, one hand clasped over his younger self's mouth, the other wrapping around his shoulders, tugging him away from the clear path and into the shadows. "Shh," Bilbo whispered to the other hobbit's ear as the other flailed in his hold. "Shh, I mean you no ill – you're about to get yourself into world of trouble there, friend, trouble you do not know. Be silent and I'll release you."

The other hobbit struggled for a moment, a complaint muffled against Bilbo's palm. Then, when Bilbo's strength proved greater, he relaxed – and Bilbo released him. Immediately the other turned around and then frowned at him.

Bilbo held a finger over the scarf, where his mouth was hidden. "Quiet. Stay here," he said as he slung his pack off his shoulders, taking his bow and quiver from it. "I'll handle this."

"But – who – you're a _Hobbit_?!" the other whispered, shocked as he saw Bilbo's feet.

"Stay here, stay _quiet_ ," Bilbo answered and then, knowing he could trust the other to be sensible – unlike with so many others he'd encountered the last year – he snuck away again, and towards the ponies.

Unlike the other, Bilbo had an actual blade with him, after all. And more besides. Perhaps they would be enough to avoid the disaster of last time. At that thought Bilbo had a moment of intense vertigo because last time, _last time_. This _was_ the last time. He was _in_ that time. Somehow, he was back there, again, at this event that had taken place so long ago.

Either he was here or he has gone mad, suddenly. No time to think on it now.

It was easy enough task, cutting the ponies loose – the trolls apparently hadn't had any trouble penning up their previous catches, because the pen was a flimsy thing indeed. Getting them _out_ of the pen without the trolls noticing it was a whole different thing, though.

And afterwards there'd be still _trolls_ about, three big ugly brutes. Taking the ponies back wouldn't change that. And if last time proved anything, it proved that Dwarves weren't that good at fighting trolls.

"I don't like horse," one of the trolls complained.

"Well, it's better than leathery old farmer. All skin and bones he was – I'm still picking bits of him off me teeth," another answered and abruptly Bilbo decided he was going to kill these trolls.

Last time he hadn't cared – last time he hadn't known any Men, not aside from what little he'd seen of them in the market once upon a blue moon, and once when he'd been a faunt and his mother had taken him to Bree. What did he care that the trolls had killed some human farmer he'd never met? People died all the time outside the Shire, and no one cared.

Now though he knew Men – he knew many of them, he had made friends with a lot of the Lakemen, Bard above them all. On the whole, Men weren't that different from hobbits, really. Now, Bilbo cared.

"Mountain Trolls are easier to handle than cave trolls," Tauriel had told him once, when he'd told her the whole tale of the journey – it had been one of their late evenings in the Woodland Realm, where shared sorrows had once more driven them together. "Not quite as thick in the neck and they tend to stay much smaller. They have a lot of weaknesses in their hide, where cave troll hide is hard almost throughout. You can't put an arrow in a cave troll – but you can in a mountain one. You just need to know _where_."

There were three places. Under the arm, in the armpit, where the flesh was soft and one might get past the rib cage. Under the chin – given that they didn't have big jowls, which some trolls did. And, of course, in the eye. "And up the nose," Tauriel had added, when they'd been half way through the bottle and she'd grown a little less stiff. "Quickest way to get an arrow to the brain, through the nose. But that's not a shot many can make, in a battle."

Bilbo wasn't in battle though. He had one surprise shot, one shot he could take his time with. On top of that, he was unseen – could become invisible if he needed to – and he was quicker and smarter than most things he fought were. All advantages he'd long since learned to take full advantage of.

Silently, he took a handful of arrows from his quiver and picked his target. In the end, it was chosen more by the troll's positions, than his own judgement – he would've liked to start with the one called Bill, as he seemed the most active of the three. But Bert was stationary, and angled just so that Bilbo had clear shot at his neck. And the spot beneath the troll's ear…

It looked far too tempting.

"Here's to hoping you taught me well enough, Tauriel," Bilbo muttered silently, and silently drew the arrow on the string. The bow was of Elven make, of course – a gift from Thranduil, a truly Elven show of gratitude to the one who had been the one to hand him back the White Gems of Lasgalen. It was a short bow, fashioned specifically for Bilbo's stature and hand, a composite of many woods, painted white and decorated with the curving patterns elves were so fond of.

It had kept Bilbo and Gandalf very well fed on their way back from those parts. And if Bilbo could hit a rabbit's neck at a hundred paces, then he could damn well hit a troll's.

Bilbo kissed the string and loosed the arrow.

It whistled through the air and hit its mark beautifully. The troll jerked with the impact and let out a croak of pain and immediately reached for his neck, as if to swat at a fly. The arrow hadn't gone deep enough to kill, but then the troll did the one thing one should not do when they were struck by an arrow – he wrenched it out.

While the other trolls stared at the sudden gushing of blood in blank, surprised incomprehension, Bilbo took advantage of their surprise and drew another arrow. He aimed it at Tom's eye, but missed his mark – the troll moved just then, and it went through the cheek instead, hitting the teeth judging by the looks of it. The third troll, Bill, was now realising what was happening and turned in Bilbo general direction.

"A filthy elven assassin!" he roared into the woods. "Shooting us from the dark - coward! Come out and show your ugly mug!"

Then he lunged towards Bilbo, except of course Bilbo wasn't there anymore. He'd already picked up his arrows and dashed to another hiding place. He kept an eye on Bert who was quickly bleeding, watching at the troll tried to stem the blood flow. There… wasn't as much of it as he would've hoped.

He hadn't hit the main artery.

"Damn it," Bilbo muttered, and drew another arrow. He counted his chances and stopped beside an old oak, taking shelter in its shadow. He took aim as quick as he dared to without the risk of lost accuracy, and then let the arrow fly.

It was less skill and more utter chance, that Bert moved just so that the arrow sunk deep and deeper into his neck just below the previous cut – and this time he didn't even need to pull it out for the blood to come out gushing, spilling all over the troll's dirty shoulder, splattering everywhere.

The ruckus going on in the Troll camp was now so great that the ponies had panicked and were running off. Bilbo glanced after them with satisfaction – wasting so a moment he didn't have to spend. Next thing he knew, a great troll club came crashing down against the roots of the oak not a few inches from him, and with a silent curse, Bilbo jumped back.

"Come here you damned knat! I will skewer you on a spit and roast your innards for my supper!" Bill roared after him.

"Bill, Bert's got an arrow in his neck again!" Tom gurgled, his torn cheek bubbling. "Here, Bert, I'll help you!"

He yanked the second arrow out roughly – and that was it for Bert.

Bill paused as Bert made to get up, only to stumble and fall all over the cooking pot in a great crash. Bilbo made a split second decision and judged it worth the risk. Taking an arrow, he stepped forward, right in front of Bill, and aimed.

The troll turned. "'Ere you are, you maggot!" he crowed, reached forward – and stopped as Bilbo's arrow sank deep into his eye socked. "Gurk," he said, sounding more annoyed and confused than in pain and then he, too, went to pull the arrow out.

Bilbo felt strangely like laughing at it all as the troll fell down face first, an arrow soaked in blood and something much worse still in hand, and did not get up. Dumb as trolls, they said – and no damn wonder.

"You – you killed – my friends, my pals, my –" the last troll gurgled and came rushing at him, all rage and power and zero control or restraint. Bilbo waited and then jumped aside, watching with some deranged sort of amusement as the troll slammed face first into the oak tree, all but knocking himself out.

Bilbo put an arrow in his neck and then, when it proved not to be anywhere near good enough, he stepped to Tom's side, took Sting out and whistled. The troll gurgled and turned to him and Bilbo stabbed him in the side of the neck, before with all of his strength wrenching the sword to the side, turning a stab into a jagged, terrible cut.

And so Tom died, slumping against the oak as Bilbo wrenched his blade out, eying the blood and gore all over the fine elven craftsmanship.

"Trolls," he muttered with disgust.

That was, of course, when Thorin Oakenshield and his entire company came crashing out of the woods and into the troll camp.

For a moment Bilbo just stared. Of course, it stood to reason that this would happen. Trolls from the past, _himself_ from the past – yes, it was quite logical that this would happen also. Somehow, though, somehow his mind had failed to make the connection earlier – failed, or perhaps outright refused.

Oh, how strange they all look. Balin, the last he'd seen him, had been wearing gold thread in his clothing, and the grand jewels of the royal advisor. Dwalin had donned a set of fine mail, true Ereborean craftsmanship, and he'd worn it proudly. Dori looked much as he always had, though the lack of gems was oddly jarring, as subtle as they had been. And Ori looked downright _strange_ in his simple garb, rather than that of the head librarian. Nori – well, no change there really, Nori's occupation in Erebor was best served in drab, easily overlooked colours. Bofur, Bifur, Bombur… they all looked so very odd, in their rough peasant garb. Glóin and Óin too looked strange, so understated without the usual gold beads in their beards and the rings on their fingers.

The lack of obvious wealth wasn't it, though. It was the confidence – and the sorrow – that was lacking. Proud dwarves or not, they weren't what they'd became in Erebor. These dwarves were something far worse than poor. They were homeless. And it showed.

These were dwarves who had yet to claim their kingdom – and yet to loose their king.

"What is going on here?!" Thorin demanded to know, a sword in hand and a furious, uneasy look on his face. He aimed his sword at Bilbo. "You. You did this?"

Bilbo said nothing. His hands were shaking – it took the scrape of his sword blade against a nearby root for him to notice it. Dully, he looked down, down at his shaking hand, at the short sword he was now clutching in white knuckled grip. Sting gleamed with blood and Bilbo concentrated desperately onto that, taking what might be his last clean handkerchief and cleaning his little sword in slow, rehearsed motions.

He needed to fetch his arrows – how many had he fired, four? No, five. Two at Bert, two at Tom and one at Bill. Tom was the closest so he ought to start with that one.

"Answer me, stranger!" Thorin ordered.

"Look at his feet! It's a _Hobbit_!" someone said – it sounded like Fíli. "Like Bilbo."

There was some sort murmuring and the skin in the back of Bilbo's neck crawled as someone – Thorin, of course it was Thorin – stepped forward. The King in Exile was aiming his sword at him.

"Your name, Hobbit," the dwarf demanded. "And your business here."

Bilbo couldn't have answered that even if his voice would've worked – which it did not. Though he did open his mouth to say, to exhale, to _something_ , nothing came out. Because… _because_ …

Because _Thorin_ stood in front of him, alive and well – albeit aiming a sword at him, but that was nothing Bilbo hadn't experienced before.

"Speaking of Hobbits – where's Bilbo?" someone else – Kíli – asked.

"Here – I'm right – here," a fourth voice, this one Bilbo's own, breathed and strained and turning to him Bilbo saw him carrying his pack. "You – left this –"

"You know this Hobbit, Master Baggins?" Thorin demanded to know, not shifting his gaze.

"I'm quite sure I've never met him in my life," the gentlehobbit answered with a grunt, hoisting Bilbo's back up and carrying it over. "He pulled me aside when I went to get the ponies – which was just as well, as he did faster work of… all of this than I could've managed. Your pack, sir."

Bilbo stared at him, and then finally put his clean sword away, accepting his pack without a word and hoisting it over his shoulder. He did not miss the way Thorin's eyes dropped onto what was slung over it. The dwarf's eyes narrowed before he turned to the other Hobbit, the younger version of Bilbo.

"The ponies?" Thorin asked dangerously.

"Back with the others!" Kíli piped up.

That shifted Thorin's severe gaze to him. "And why weren't they with the others in the first place?" he asked.

"Well… that is to say… they got lost…?"

Thorin snorted at that, and then his eyes snapped back to Bilbo – and not once had his sword shifted from its aim. "Your name stranger – and I would see your face," Thorin said, his eyes as steely as the blade between them. "I will not trust a man whose face I have not seen."

It was the look, more than anything, that shook Bilbo out of his stupor. Thorin did not know him – and of course he didn't, the darkness of the late night was doing Bilbo a favour there. But the look in his eyes, it was as familiar as it was cutting – it was probably the same look Thorin gave to the younger Bilbo. Of suspicion and mistrust and cool judgement.

It was how Thorin had looked at him at the start and for so long, up until Bilbo had returned from the Misty Mountains and then rushed to his defence on that burning ledge.

"You make it sound like your trust is valuable to me," Bilbo said finally, his voice rough and uneven – and why did those have to be the first words he spoke to Thorin after Ravenhill? Why such words, when there were so many other things he wanted to say, so many other things that had been left unsaid? When he'd been choking on them for so long, that they were bubbling out of him in mournful songs?

"Your name, Halfling" Thorin growled.

Bilbo didn't answer – his throat had closed up again. Instead he turned to Tom, still lying slumped against the ancient oak tree. It took some work to reach the arrow – trolls weren't exactly small creatures – but once he did he found to his relief that it was easy enough to remove. Troll necks were thick, he recalled – the arrow hadn't even reached muscle properly.

Someone cleared a throat as Bilbo examined the arrow to avoid looking at Thorin.

"Well, whoever you are, you seem to have done us a service," Balin said from the side, stepping forward. Ever the diplomat, Balin. "Freeing our ponies and saving one of our number from the trouble of sneaking about trolls – never mind handling the trolls themselves."

"Hm," Bilbo answered, glancing at him, at the others – Fíli and Kíli were right there, staring at him in mystified interest, and looking at them was almost physically painful. So, he looked away, at something anything – there Bill, lying flat on his face, and Bilbo went to fetch the gore covered arrow in the troll's hand.

"It's a bit strange seeing a Hobbit in these parts," Balin said, in tones that suggested that Bilbo should offer explanation.

Bilbo pointed at his younger self instead.

"Well – he's been hired by our company," Balin said, frowning a bit.

"And for all his merits or lack thereof – he's not a Hobbit nearly as well travelled as you seem. Or armed," Dwalin growled. "Where did you get that shield, Halfling?"

"It was a gift," Bilbo answered, examining the arrow and sighing. It was salvageable but utterly filthy – and he wasn't entirely sure if it was worth the trouble. Well, maybe if he dropped it in a river a couple of times…

He felt very tempted to say that he'd gotten the shield from a prison - which was true enough. Thranduil had a whole collection of things confiscated from prisoners, including quite a bit taken from Thorin's Company. He'd given Bilbo free reign to collect – Bilbo had taken some of those things as mementos. The shield… hadn't been one of them, but it had been included in the armoury of confiscated goods.

"You want it?" Tauriel had been so surprised.

"It would look well on my mantelpiece," Bilbo answered – and paid dearly for that flippancy. It was the last time he'd treated tools of war as decorations.

"It's a Dwarven shield. And that clasp on your cloak is Dwarven also," Thorin pointed out.

"You've keen eyes, Master Dwarf," Bilbo answered, walking to Bert to see if the arrows fired into his neck were salvageable – or indeed, even in one piece. They weren't – he found them both in splinters, which wasn't a surprise. It was just wood – wood in the grip of a troll could not last.

His fingers were still shaking as he pocketed the arrow heads, but he was with his back to the company now. They would not see.

"I've a temperament that tires of these games," Thorin answered in a near growl. "Your _name_."

"I wouldn't mind knowing myself," Bilbo's younger self added and Bilbo could just imagine him leaning in. "You're a Bree hobbit, I suppose? An Underhill maybe? I'm from Hobbiton myself. Bilbo Baggins, at your service, sir."

Bilbo exhaled at that and stood up. He looked around, acutely aware that he was looking for some excuse not to face the company – but he'd expended all available distractions now, hadn't he? Except perhaps for one. "There's a cave not far from here," he said roughly, motioning to the troll cave's general direction. "It's where they weathered the days. There's treasure there you might find interesting."

"Treasure," someone murmured – Bofur. "How much treasure are we talking about?"

"If there is treasure there then it's yours to claim, stranger, as you were the one to kill these trolls," Balin said, and Bilbo could hear him – and the others – stepping closer now. Stepping around the dead trolls and the mess they'd made, checking the pen and carcasses of long dead sheep that had been their previous dinner.

Bilbo said nothing and the silence stretched a moment. Then, "Dwalin, Bofur, Bifur, go check the cave," Thorin ordered – he was to the left now. "Are there more trolls about, do you know?"

"Just these three," Bilbo answered tensely. They were moving to surround him, he knew – though very carefully. He still had a way of exit, but they were closing it up. Did they really see him as a threat?

"You're sure of that, _Halfling_?"

"I'm sure."

"What are trolls doing this far south, is what I want to know," Nori commented – he was at the pen, examining the rope the trolls had used to make it. "Looks like they're the reason the farm's in ruins."

"Aye, the trolls would explain it," Balin said. "And the Wizard's unease at our staying here – not that it's relevant now, it seems."

"Wizard," Bilbo said slowly. Right, of course. They travelled with Gandalf – Gandalf who'd taken off for… reason Bilbo had quite forgotten, and then saved them from the trolls by cracking the last stone between them and daylight. What was the time now? Around midnight?

It would be hours before Gandalf returned, if he did what he'd done last time.

"You know many wizards, Halfling?" Thorin asked.

"Just the one," Bilbo answered and tugged at his scarf – making an aborted move to tug it down and then tugging it further up instead. "I would like to speak with him."

"Well, you're out of luck," the King in Exile said.

"I'm sure Gandalf will be back soon – he just went off to… clear his head, a bit," the other Hobbit said with a tone of nervousness on his voice – he too had not missed the nervous disposition of the Dwarves, apparently. "He'll be back before morning if nothing else. Why don't you join us for the night?"

Bilbo hesitated and then ducked down as a hand reached for him, ducking below it and then rolling away quickly and up to his feet again, Sting coming to his hand as he did. He pointed it at the offender – and Thorin pointed his sword right back at him while every other dwarf in the near vicinity grasped their respective weapons as well.

"Hey, hey, wait," Bilbo's own voice said, though it wasn't him speaking. The other Hobbit, in his fine Shire coat, stepped between them. "I'm sure there is no need for this," Bilbo's younger, far more naïve past self said exasperatedly. "He's a Hobbit – he's hardly a threat!"

 "He took down three trolls on his own and utterly unscathed," Thorin answered harshly.

"And that's only a good thing as far as I can tell," the Hobbit answered and turned to Bilbo. "I'm sure no one here means anyone any harm. So can we all just… put the swords away?"

Bilbo stared at himself. How had they grown so different, in such a short time? Sure, Bilbo himself would've much prefer to talk rather than fight – but… the other looked so hopeful as he stood there, between two swords. So foolishly optimistic, gullibly thinking either himself beyond harm, or them beyond the harming.

"You are far too trusting," Bilbo muttered to him, and pointed Sting at his own throat for a moment. "You're going to pay for that."

The other swallowed but didn't move – and maybe his naïve confidence had some point. Bilbo stepped back and lowered Sting to his side – and on the other side the Hobbit between them, Thorin slowly, almost begrudgingly, did the same.

"Well then," Balin said, he too stepping between them as if he hadn't been holding a sword just a moment ago. "Would you like to join us for supper, stranger while we wait for the wizard to return?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was entirely inspired by the shield Bilbo was carrying at the end of BotfA.


	8. Dryad Hobbits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt by Anonymous: What about Hobbits as Dryads?

"Feeling festive today, eh, Bilbo? What's the celebration?"

Bilbo looked up from his bowl of porridge with confusion.  "I… beg your pardon?"

"The flower," Bofur said, motioning at something near Bilbo's ear. "Where did you even get that? There's nothing but rock fifty miles each direction."

"What, flower…?" Bilbo asked, reaching to touch - and sure enough there was a flower bud sitting securely behind his pointed ear. "Oh. Oh, bother."

Bofur blinked at him as the dismay suddenly broke through the generally gloomy atmosphere and manifested on the hobbit's normally genial face. "Something the matter lad?"

"No, no, I'm… it's quite cold, I'm sure it'll just die out. Yes, certainly. This late into the year," Bilbo muttered, looking around himself wretchedly. The MistyMountains stretched all around them, cool and foreboding. "And this sort of place, too. The cold will kill it no doubt. Yes, quite."

"Er. It's just a flower," Bofur said slowly, concerned frown coming to his face. "Not even that - it's just a bud."

"Yes, yes. Just one bud," Bilbo agreed hastily and stood. "Pardon me, Bofur. I need some air."

With that said he bustled off to sit at the far end of the camp, at a treacherous ledge. If Bofur had really been paying attention he might have noted that Bilbo sat downwind from everyone else. But the hobbit's departure was so sudden that all he did was blink with astonishment and wonder if he'd said something wrong.

Bilbo kept his distance from everyone else that night, sleeping as far away as he could, out in the wind. Even the least observant members of the company could see him shivering, the flower bud still tucked behind his ear.

Bilbo resolutely refused a warmer spot, however, so in the end the dwarves left him to it. Who was to understand the peculiarities of hobbits after all?

 

-

 

The next morning Bilbo had two flower buds in his hair, one of them barely starting to open - its delicate petals flapped wildly as he fell through the trap door and into GoblinTown. And the flash of their golden hue was the last thing the dwarves saw if him as he fell even further and the darkness swallowed him whole.

 

-

 

Gollum was like a sickly, withered branch, twisted and crooked and spindly. He stated at the flowers budding in Bilbo's hair hungrily, the memory of their significance long lost to his mind - but the instinct remained.

"Oh, so ripe - no not yet but soon, nectar sweet, lemon honey and crystal clear waters, so juicy, so sweet," he whispered as he approached, crooked and crawling - stalking.

Bilbo was badly knocked about but he wasn't a fool - he knew what that look meant. And as scary and spindly as Gollum was, Bilbo wasn't yesterday's nut.

The moment Gollum got close enough, eyes transfixed and expression mesmerised, Bilbo brained him with the nearest rock he could get his hands on.

He had three budding flowers in his hair then. And one of them was almost blossoming already. Confound it all.

 

-

 

At Beorn's house the dwarves remarked confusedly on the sweet smell. "Must be those flowers," Ori said, sniffing at the air.

"Where do you even keep on finding those?" Bofur asked, perplexed. Bilbo had half a dozen flowers in his hair now in various stages of blooming - some of them a little singed from the fire but still there. He hadn't lost a single one and more buds appeared each day. "I've been looking and I haven't seen any flowers that look like that."

Beorn chortled at that while Gandalf sent a thoughtful look at Bilbo - who all but shrank with embarrassment.

"Well, it's just as well," he said. "Dwarves aren't susceptible to the pheromones, but they might be enough to cover the miasma of Mirkwood."

"Miasma?" Thorin asked sharply. "What miasma?"

 

-

 

The miasma of Mirkwood was foul and sickly and never before had Bilbo been so glad of his Took inheritance - once he started blooming he bloomed vigorously. The full crown of flowers and their scent was the only thing keeping him in his senses in the befouled forest.

The dwarves weren't so lucky. Only those staying close to him benefited from his time of blooming - and with thirteen dwarves only a few could stay close enough to remain clear headed. And try as he might Bilbo couldn't corral the bewitched dwarves into order and once they lost the road, it was lost - and with it so were they.

As it was there was a scent in the forest that was… distracting. It was something the miasma couldn't touch. Something powerful. Something…

…familiar.

 

-

 

Even a magic ring could do little to hide the scent wafting off Bilbo, so he didn't even try to hide and the elves captured the whole company one and all.

There was definite astonishment on their faces when they captured Bilbo, however - and the treatment Bilbo got at their hands was markedly careful and gentle. They stared at his crown of flowers openly and confusedly - one even walked around him, following the line of blossoms from behind one ear to the other. Another reached out to touch - only to be stopped by the blond elf in the lead, his expression severe.

"We will take him to my father," the blond elf said, and try as he might Bilbo couldn't convince himself the elf meant Thorin.

 

-

 

Where the dwarves were taken, Bilbo didn't know. He was taken up, up the branches of the oldest, biggest tree he'd ever seen, and the further up they went the less Bilbo worried about the dwarves. He was too busy worrying over himself.  Because the tree…

The tree…!

And then he met the king of the Woodland Realm. Meeting an elven king was bad enough - meeting Lord Elrond had been bad too, but a king…? Yet what struck Bilbo dumb and speechless wasn't that Thranduil was a king.

It was the crown of branches he had in his hair, autumn leaves curling at their base.

Living branches. Living leaves.

"Oh," Bilbo whispered as he tried and failed to wrap his mind around the sheer age of the being in front of him. And it wasn't just the elven king - but the tree.

It must be older than all the life trees of the Shire combined!

"Oh," Thranduil answered faintly, staring at Bilbo's golden blooming in equal astonishment. "Oh… dear."

 

-

 

Bilbo didn't yet have a life tree - truthfully he didn't think he'd ever plant one. Life trees were… special. One didn't plant one alone - and alone was what he was determined to stay.

And yet months later, a whole lot of adventures and losses later, he ventured back to Shire with an acorn clenched tightly in his fist.

His life tree, he knew, would outlive him by centuries.


	9. Doctor of Thorin and Company

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hobbit/Sherlock crossover.

They aren't entirely sure when the switch happened. Things twisted out of understanding in Mirkwood. They lost days, perhaps weeks in that murky place, lost in a vague blur that tasted of rot and smelled of death. But somewhere along the way, something had changed. It was perhaps gradual, perhaps sudden, perhaps the whole thing was nothing but yet another dream conjured up by the sickness that lay on the forest. Perhaps… perhaps it was only reality, given form where the formless shadows dwelled there.

At some point, a Halfling twisted away from them, and was replaced by a Man.

They do not even realise it until much later – later Thorin thinks back to the moments in the forests and he remembers seeing the Man, a hint of a larger, taller shape just at the corner of his vision, walking with them. When Master Baggins of Bag End had faded, he isn't sure. It might've been as soon as they lost their way – or somewhere along the way. But he had not noticed. None of them had noticed.

He doubts the Man himself knows either.

The elves put the Man in the same cell as Thorin, thinking perhaps that he had hand in the command of their Company, being the lone Man there – and how like an elf to make such assumptions. The Man does not argue, though the faces he makes are many, as are the aborted objections and resigned mutterings.

"Hey – just, listen to me for a moment – well okay then," the man mutters as the bars close and lock after them. "Great."

 It is there, in their joint cell far below the Palace of the Elvenking that Thorin looks up at the Man and realises with some confusion that the man isn't Bilbo Baggins – and yet… and _yet_. The features are unmistakeable – the same eyes, the same nose, the same cheeks and chin. Everything else about him is different, but his face is of none other than Bilbo Baggins'. He even has the same look about his face, flat and unamused and utterly unimpressed.

"A dungeon," the man says, looking up and down along the cell and making faces that are much like those of Master Baggins and yet not. "Alright then."

The strangest thing about him is his clothes, perhaps – if one can even look past the sudden change from a curly haired Halfling to a Man with his hair shorn short. The clothes may be why the Elves assumed he might hold a similar position to Thorin amidst the company – they are very fine and very strange. A black coat of some strange fabric which Thorin cannot easily name, with a tunic of strange design underneath it, a shirt collar showing from under it, the fine fabric woven with a checker pattern. He wears a set of dark blue trousers that cling close to his skin, and the seam along the length of the leg is incredibly evenly sown. His footwear – for the Man definitely wears some on his decisively un-Hobbitish feet – is like that of Men, yet the craftsmanship of the shoes on his feet is the finest Thorin has seen outside Elven halls.

Thorin cannot place him, not his clothes nor his short hair, his clean shaven chin. He stands strangely, stiff and firm and not at all like the easy going Master Baggins. Nor, Thorin thinks, like any warrior he has ever met… but there is something about the firm line of the Man's shoulders that speaks of a warrior.

The Man casts him a couple of furtive glances as he paces along the cell and Thorin can see him looking for a way out. "So," the man says, abrupt and cautious all at once. "How did we get here?"

"We were captured by the Elves of the Woodland Realm," Thorin says, watching him warily. "Who reside in Mirkwood and call it their home and kingdom."

"Hm, the Elves of the Woodland Realm, right, of course," the Man says, glancing him up and down and there is a sort of amused disbelief about his face that sets Thorin's teeth on edge. "And you are…?" the Man arcs his eyebrows in question.

Thorin holds his tongue for a moment, just watching him, waiting for recognition. The Man's eyebrows furrow after a moment and his seemingly open expression closes – he does not know Thorin, never mind his familiar face. It is truly not Bilbo Baggins, suddenly in Man-shape, but rather a stranger, who had Master Baggins' face.

"John Watson. That's my name," the Man says after a while, motioning at himself when Thorin remains silent. Then the Man motions at Thorin expectantly. "Aaand now you tell me yours."

"Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thrór," the Dwarf answers and frowns at him. "Where did you come from, Master Watson?"

The man pauses at that, his eyebrows rising and then descending, his face scrunching up in thought. He turns, paces a few steps along the cell and then stopping abruptly again to pat at his coat, to check at his pockets. Looking for his possessions which, Thorin knows, the Elves would have removed.

At yet the Man comes away with a strange black angular thing, which sits in his hand easily. It is not a weapon, Thorin does not know what it is – but the craftsmanship of it is startling. Such smooth, clean lines – and it is obviously made of metal, whatever it is.

"What is it?" Thorin asks.

"Uh, well," the Man says, making a face that's half smile and half grimace, tilting is head a bit. "Hm," he says again and then somehow takes the thing in his hand apart – the handle is a tube, it seems, and it holds inside it a secret chamber. For a moment Thorin hopes that he might hide in it a set of lock picks or something similarly useful – but no, it is full of metal beads of some kind.

"Can it help us out of here?" Thorin asks regardless.

"Well that depends," Watson says and pushes the secret tube back in it's place in his strange device before hiding the thing at his back under his coat. Then he looks at Thorin. "Just out of curiosity – why are we in a cell, exactly?"

"The King of this Realm is… unreasonable, even for an Elf," Thorin explains with a scowl. "And greedy. Our crime is trespassing on his land, and for our pardon he will want special dispensation."

"He wants something from you?" Watson asks, tugging at his coat to hide the device. Then he looks at Thorin and, quite knowingly, reads his expression. "And you don't want to give it to him, I'm guessing."

"Thranduil of the Greenwood deserves _nothing_ from me," Thorin spat, for a moment forgetting that he did not even know this Man that bore the Burglar's face. "He has shown no kindness to me nor my people, nor has he ever given us the smallest of allowance that was his to give – why should _I_ make any concessions to him when he has offered nothing of the sort to me?"

"Well," Watson says slowly. "He has us in prison. And I saw a lot of sharp pointy things out there," he nodded towards the cell door.

Thorin grits his teeth at that and looks away.

Watson makes a thoughtful _hm_ behind him. "So what does Thran… whatshisface want?"

Thorin snorts at that and glares at the corner of the cell. "Gems, no doubt," he says then. "Gems which I do not even have, as of now, maybe never. He will want a promise, that should it come to pass that I gain access to them, they will be given to him."

"Right," Watson says and there is moment of quiet. "And I'm guessing they're valuable, these gems?"

"Obviously," Thorin says shaking his head. "A mere pittance against the treasure of Erebor, but they are not without value."

"More valuable than, say… our lives?"

Thorin turns to him with disbelief, to see Watson watching him without judgement or censure, but a strange frank lack of _faith_ which, somehow, was even worse. "Thranduil would not dare," Thorin says harshly. "He would not _dare_ to put the Heir of the line of Durin to the blade. Even he is not fool enough to do that!"

"Heir of… Durin, I guess that's you, then?" Watson asks and tilts his head. "How about the rest of us?" he asked and glanced at the cell door again. "There was, what, a dozen of us? What about them?"

Thorin opens his mouth and then snaps it closed, and his blood runs cold. Thranduil would not touch him, nor his kin – though they were far from favoured among the Dwarven people, they were still of the House of Durin. Their deaths at the hand of the Elvenking would spark a war like no other between Elves and Dwarves, and even Thranduil would not risk that. But the rest…

There were mere miners and tinkers and tailors among their number – commoners and peasants. Thranduil could very easily put them to the sword one by one to try and break Thorin's will – and after, he could claim that the forest took them, that the spiders killed them. And who would dispute him? The Dwarves might believe Thorin, but the rest of the world would not – and no matter what… members of his company would still be dead.

Thranduil wouldn't… or would he?

Watson eyes him with his eyebrows arched. "Well?"

Thorin scowls at him – _up_ at him – and he rather hates the Man for putting such a fear into his mind. "Who are you?" he demands to know. "And where is Master Baggins?"

John Watson blinks at that with surprise and then looks up as steps sound outside their cell. It is the red-haired Captain of the Guard, who's come to their cell door.

"My Lord Thranduil will see you now," the She-Elf says as she opens the door and looks inside imperiously. "Come."

Thorin casts a glance at Watson that's full of suspicion before turning to follow the red-haired elf out. Watson shrugs at him in answer, and follows.

 

* * *

 

Watson remains quiet as Thranduil speaks to Thorin, standing back with the air of casual, nonchalant obscurity of one who was used to standing back and observing events as they occurred. The only comments he offers are spoken silently by his eyebrows and the line of his mouth but they speak very loudly indeed.

It is not until the White Gems of Lasgalen are brought up that Watson makes any noise at all.

"There are Gems in that mountain that I too desire," Thranduil says, pointedly casual. "White Gems, of pure starlight."

Thorin feels his shoulders stiffen and can taste the vitriol he wishes to unleash upon this two-faced Elven King - but Watson clears his throat sharply before the old hatred can take flight in words. "And what are they worth to you, these white gems of starlight?" Watson asks and arches his eyebrows as both the Dwarven and Elven kings turn to him. "Just out of idle curiosity."

Thranduil leans back, watching for a moment how Thorin glares at the Man. "My aid," the Elven King then says and turns his back to them, regal and aloof as if his interest wasn't as keen as was Thorin's. "I know something of dragons and am no stranger to the business of ending their wretched lives. A number of my best archers to aid you in slaying of the dragon, equipped with my wisdom… and the tools of old. While Smaug remains sleeping and indolent, they may slay the beast before it can rouse."

Thorin stops at that, staring at him in disbelief. Thranduil glances him over his shoulder. "That is, of course, if you have a way into the mountain."

"All this, for the White Gems of Lasgalen?" Thorin demands, suspicious.

"The heirlooms of my people are not so easily forsaken," the Elven king says.

"And yet they were forsaken for over a century," Thorin spits at him. "As you sat and did nothing."

"As I waited," Thranduil snaps back. "A century is a mere blink of an eye in the life of an Elf - I can wait that much and more. Without a way into the mountain except that guarded by the beast himself…" he turned away sharply. "Smaug has slept and in his sleep he has not fed, Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thrór. He was well fed and full of vigour when he took Erebor and going against a dragon in his full strength is insanity. Now… Now things are different. Now there is a chance."

Thorin grimaces at that and is about to tell him where to shove his chance - when Watson clears his throat again. "So," the Man says. "For the gems you'd help us… slay a dragon?" he says, struggling go keep a straight face and completely ignoring the look Thorin gives him. "Can we have a moment to think it over?"

"I think I'd rather have my answer now," Thranduil says, glancing at Thorin imperiously. "While the subject is fresh at hand."

"Well, that's not very diplomatic of you, is it?" Watson says, his tone unimpressed.

Thranduil rounds on him sharply and though he looms even over the Man, Watson doesn't as much as blink. "And what would you know of diplomacy?" The Elvenking demands to know, looking down his nose at Watson. "Where do you hail from that you would claim you know of the matters of kings?"

"Well," Watson says, making a face of exaggerated thought, wetting his lips. "What I know is that prancing around like an over dramatic prat rarely gets much diplomacy done. Usually it just makes people want to punch you."

"Excuse me?" Thranduil hisses while Thorin's eyebrows lift with surprise.

"I want to punch you," Watson clarifies, enunciating carefully. "And Thorin wants to punch you, or the political equivalent thereof. Even the Captain looks like she wants to punch you. So how about some time to deliberate before someone gets punched, hm?"

"You would not dare to strike a king," Thranduil says with a dismissive snort.

"Want to try me?" Watson asks flatly and Thorin and Thranduil both quickly figure out that yes, this Man would strike an Elven king without hesitation or remorse.

"Take them back to their cell," Thranduil finally snarls at the Elven Captain of the Guard, staring hard and thoughtful at Watson - who just arches his eyebrows back at him. Thranduil scoffs. "I will see them on the morrow, once they have had the time to… deliberate."


	10. Accidental Assassin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt by annaisu: He wondered if the Shire had some sort of immunity from the stupidity the rest of the world seemed to be suffering from.

Ever since getting his little sword, Bilbo had been watching the Dwarves – and then, eventually, the Elves, Men, and Orcs – fight. Though Dwalin and Fíli and Kíli oh so graciously – and bruisingly – offered him some lessons and tips on how to handle his blade, Bilbo had always been a Hobbit that learned more by watching and figuring things out for himself, rather than from being taught. And, he soon figured, in this case it was all for the best too.

There was something utterly absurd in the way Dwarves fought, he'd found. Maybe it had to do with how big they were, that they had to move around so grandly, throwing their whole bodies into their swings and roaring like madmen, all of them. Maybe for them it took effort to lift a blade and swing it around, and that effort, inevitably, pushed through in grand thrusts and great bellows. Maybe they couldn't help it?

Dwalin would make threatening gestures with his axe, sort of mock attacks, grunting threateningly at his opponents. Thorin shouted loud as anything with every swing and thrust and parry. Fíli and Kíli did the same, so much so that when called to be quiet to shoot an Orc unseen, Kíli had obvious difficulty – it was as if he could not concentrate without the proper noise. Bifur, Bofur and Bombur, when they fought, were loud as well, and wild, and all over the place, more show than skill Bilbo had found. Ori yelled sometimes even louder than most, and his weapon was a slingshot, and Dori had very fine war chants he shouted as he swung his swords about.

Of all the Dwarves only Nori and Balin fought silently – but even they had one glaring flaw in their fighting practices that Bilbo found he could not, as a Sensible Hobbit of the Shire, approve. They roared out before they joined a battle.

They… _roared_ before they joined battle. And twice as hard when they were doing so from _behind the enemy_.

It was beyond Bilbo's understanding, it really was. And he hoped dearly it was a decisively Dwarvish affliction, surely Elves did no such thing…

Except no, Elves had their own war shouts – elegant and sharp as a whip and always quite loud. Worse yet, they occasionally called their shots – the Captain of the Guard in Greenwood the Great would line up her archers, ready them and then command the launch of arrows, all of it loud. The Prince of the Greenwood, Legolas, though he fought with pragmatic silence, he too joined his battles with sharp and decisive yells.

It was as if all the people of Middle-earth that fought had to announce themselves before a battle. And while Bilbo could understand it objectively – it was quite rude to turn up unannounced… but it was _battle_. Surely one ought to be sensible about such things?

Even the darkest of creatures had to make their presence known before the fight was joined. Wargs howled and Spiders skittered in the shadows, _attercop, attercop_ and Orcs and Goblins sneered and snarled loud and proud as if it wasn't getting them time and time again killed. And it was getting them killed. So far he had yet to see a Fell thing – other than Azog the Defiler – that did not bring about his own doom by announcing himself to his enemy.

Bilbo watched, increasingly grim over this strange, honourable foolishness on the battle field, and swore to ignore all of Kíli's lessons on proper war shouts, Fíli's laments over threatening war chants, Dwalin's determined attempts of putting _loudness_ before _efficiency_. Bilbo, as he took up his blade with every intention of mastering it, swore to ignore the fighting methods of Dwarves, Elves, Men and even Orcs. No, he would fight like a Hobbit.

Silently, pragmatically, without warning, without mercy, and above all… without grandness.

 

-

 

Bilbo's quick and unobtrusive on the battle field where seemingly all the species of Middle-earth met in war. He moved amidst the fighting forces without pause, keeping to his feet, keeping out of sight, keeping his movements quick and attacks quicker. They were short and sharp, jabs rather than thrusts, cuts rather than swings. He severed tendons at the back of Orcish heels and cut their throats when they fell, but more often than not, he found openings in rough armour, and stabbed backs and bellies swift and shallow – and he moved on.

The thing was, after all, Orcs were all muscle and efficiency – no fat between their armour and their guts to protect them. It didn't take the whole blade's length, even one so short as his, to cut too deep to heal.

So moving, the Hobbit of the Shire and of Thorin and Company left in his wake a increasing number of slowly dying Orcs that clawed at their stomachs and never figured out who had killed them without warning. And there was no warning for the rest either – as they fought Elves and Dwarves, Bilbo stabbed their backs and incapacitated them and moved on to leave them either to die or be killed, weakened as they were.

That was the core of his Hobbitish Fighting, he'd decided. Incapacitate as many as you can as fast as you can – rather than concentrating on killing just the one. Men, Elves, Dwarves, and Orcs might follow a code of honour that stopped them stabbing others in the back, but you never knew, there might be that one pragmatist out there that followed a different code. Better not to get distracted so, better not to waste time so.

There were those that saw him on the battle field, and later there were stories. The Halfling Assassin of Thorin and Company, who moved like a wraith amidst the fighting, and killed everything he happened to come across. Brutal and cruel and without mercy, he stabbed in the back only, never meeting anyone blade to blade, and offering no one a second chance. He must have killed dozens, nay, hundreds that day, on his way to Ravenhill.

Where he stole his way to behind numerous Orcs and silently killed them before making his way to the shadow of Azog the Defiler and there, right in the middle of the Orc's historic fight with Thorin Oakenshield, the Assassin ran the White Orc through with his short blade, just like that.

Later, when the Dwarves tried to figure out whether to be horrified or honoured by his actions, Bilbo mused that he would rather like to poison his blade, to quicken his kills further. After all that was the point of it, when you stuck a blade in someone – to kill them. A poison would aid in that greatly.

"Oh, what have we done to your sensibilities, lad," Balin lamented as the Dwarves paled. "What have we done to your honour."

Bilbo rolled his eyes. "I'm a Hobbit, Master Balin. We don't bother with honour."


	11. Concerning Master Baggins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things add up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbetaed, sorry about that

 

Thorin stared at the hobbit hard and long. Master Baggins was sitting across the fire from him, examining his new little sword with great satisfaction, and something about him – everything about him – irked Thorin something fierce.

He'd been on the road most of his life now, travelling to and from the Blue Mountains on half a thousand different errands. He'd travelled through hundreds of settlements, most of them of men but several of hobbits and of course of dwarves and there was something he'd learned long ago. There were no such things… as coincidences. Everything could be traced back to a reason and purpose, be it unusually high or low prices for goods, someone swindling you on a deal, encountering a camp of goblins on the road, being robbed, falling into a trap, even meeting someone friendly and kind unrepentantly, anything and everything had a reason. Everything had an underlying cause.

High or low prices were easy enough to explain; someone had left or entered the market and thus unbalanced it. Someone swindled you on a deal because either they had been swindled, or they were desperate for one reason or another – or the local economy was fixed and corrupt.  Goblins on road usually meant that rangers and elves had taken out an encampment, or there was some trouble brewing amongst goblins. Being robbed – or attempted robbery at least – usually could also be traced to local politics and economy and market value of goods and services. Traps either had similar reasons as robberies, or it was goblins and orcs behind it. Friendliness was the best sign of local state of affairs – only happy, wealthy people could afford to be friendly.

But what were the underlying causes behind this sequence of events?

Firstly, three trolls on the road, far from their lands way up north. Then, Master Baggins being captured by the said trolls, due to sneaking up on them. The Company being captured – and then subsequently rescued by Master Baggins stalling. And then, to crown the incident, they find a hoard of loot, some of it tracing back thousands and thousands of years in history, back to the _First Age_ , to Gondolin!

Thorin narrowed his eyes. Incidents happened on road, true enough, and he'd been prepared for many things to occur on this venture. But trolls that not only spoke but _spoke eloquently_ , and treasure from the times of the Gondolin? That was altogether too much. That sort of thing simply did not happen, not outside great stories. And true enough he'd been part of those great stories himself – Erebor's story was a legend, nowadays. But this… this was beyond the realm of reality. The wealth of treasure at their disposal suddenly was beyond realm of reality.

There was enough gold in the troll hoard to feed everyone in Blue Mountains for months, and they'd just… _found it_. They found weapons that judging by the looks of them were _legendary_ , and more treasure than Thorin had seen since the time of Erebor. Just like that. And the thing was – Thorin was now starting to doubt that the treasure was the troll's treasure in the first place. Rather… rather it had been there before the trolls had gotten to these parts.

Thorin narrowed his eyes as Master Baggins who was now listening to Fíli explain how to sharpen his sword with a sort of polite amusement, nodding along as he ran his fingers over his little sword's blade. Turning his eyes downwards, Thorin looked at his own blade. It was obviously elven craftsmanship but at the same time there was something ridiculously ostentatious about the design. Namely the fact that it had a _dragon's tooth_ for a hilt. And that, too, irked Thorin.

On a quest to claim his homeland from a dragon, he _stumbled_ on a great, possibly legendary sword… with a dragon tooth hilt.

Running his fingers over the runes inscribed along the guard and blade, Thorin looked up again, glancing between Master Baggins and the Grey Wanderer. There were too many handy coincidences there and he did not like it. Were it not for the fact that Gandalf had been away when these coincidences had begun, he would've laid all the blame at the Grey Wanderer's feet. But he'd been away, and who had begun it all, who'd set off the sequence of events that had led them to this sudden, indescribable treasure?

Master Baggins.

Thorin did not like it one bit.

 

* * *

 

"Why do you suppose Gandalf chose Master Baggins?" Thorin asked Balin the next day, as they rode on, slightly ahead of everyone else and thus out of hearing range. "Of all people and of all hobbits… why Master Baggins?"

Balin hummed deep in his chest and glanced backwards. Master Baggins was holding the tail – as he always did. He was smallest of them all and had least gear with him – a mere backpack, not even very tightly packed – so by reason his pony should've had the least trouble carrying him. But the mount loitered after everyone else, keeping to the rear of the company.

"I have been wondering about that," Balin admitted. "At first I thought we might be dealing with what you might call a _gentleman adventurer,_ " he said, his eyebrows arched meaningfully. "Or your usual thrill seeking treasure hunter. But that does not seem to be the case, considering how inexperienced he is with the road. We've seen halflings with more experience in travelling in Bree, and few in Blue Mountains during autumn festivals. Any one of them might've served better."

"And yet, not a week into this venture with Master Baggins in our company, we did find treasure," Thorin pointed out.

"Aye, and quite bit of it too," Balin agreed, patting his purse which he, like every dwarf in present, had taken the chance to refill at the troll hoard.

Thorin felt the weight of his own purse and hummed, scowling. Of all of them the only person who had not taken the chance to replenish his purse… was Bilbo Baggins. He'd only taken the sword. "There's obviously some history there," he said.

"Between Gandalf and Master Baggins? I'd say so," Balin agreed. "Gandalf seems to trust him implicitly – though he did seem mighty frustrated with Master Baggins'… leisurely life style, which I find curious."

Thorin looked back, thinking back to that evening in Bagend, to listening to Gandalf and Master Baggin's muffled argument in another room. He had not quite heard what had been spoken then, but he'd gotten the gist of it. Gandalf had been irritated by Master Baggin's peaceful pursuits and disinterest in the quest, as if he'd expected to find Master Baggins all for it and ready to go, and had been disappointed that it was not so.

"You think they used to travel before?" Thorin asked.

"If they did, it was long ago – so long, that Master Baggins forgot how to manage himself on the road," Balin said thoughtfully.

Thorin considered that, leaning his head back a little and staring at the sky. It looked like it was about to rain. "Balin," he said then, not entirely sure whether he should word his theory or not. "I have a feeling that… we might have been led to the treasure hoard."

"Gandalf was explicitly against staying at the farmhouse – for a good reason, it turned out," Balin noted. "If he meant to lead us to it, that seems rather counterproductive."

"Not by Gandalf – Master Baggins," Thorin said, casting a glance backwards and then looking at his oldest friend. "Think about it – does it not seem all too convenient? Master Baggins all but led us to being captured by trolls, and then knew just what to say to the trolls to stall them _precisely_ as long as it took for Gandalf to come and aid us. And then, once it was done, the treasure was found. And that was no normal troll hoard," he added, patting his new, fine sword. "Not with these weapons present."

Balin frowned at that, giving him a look. "You think the event was engineered?"

Thorin scowled. "I do not know," he said. "But it was all too convenient and smoothly handled, don't you agree? And what more," he added, glancing backwards and at Master Baggins. "The halfling was grabbed and roughly manhandled by the trolls - and trolls aren't exactly known for their delicacy of touch. He should at least be _bruised_. And yet there isn't a mark on him."

Balin's eyebrows shot up and he too looked backwards. Master Baggins blinked and turned to look back, facing Thorin's and Balin's stares past the others. He arched his eyebrows in challenge, and with a harrumph Thorin turned to look forward again, squeezing the reigns of his pony tightly in his hands.

"While in Shire and in Master Baggin's home, I warned Gandalf that I could not ensure the hobbit's safety," Thorin said, his lips set in thin line. "And that I would not be held responsible of his fate. And the wizard agreed. Now, looking back to it, I am not entirely sure if Gandalf was at all concerned for the hobbit."

If Master Baggins even _was_ a hobbit.

"Hmm," Balin answered, nodding thoughtfully as he too looked ahead. "This bears further observation, I think."

"Agreed," Thorin said, grim.

 

* * *

 

"Brother," Balin said, as he and Dwalin took their turn caring for the ponies. "You were the first to Bagend. How long were you there before I arrived?"

"Half an hour, not very long," Dwalin said, hoisting the saddle off Fíli's pony and to a near by fallen tree trunk. He inspected the straps and belts and buckles and straightened a few of them. "What of it?"

Balin hummed, running a brush in circles over his own pony's flank, smiling faintly at it's pleased whinny. "Just something Thorin brought up to my attention that has me questioning everything I have seen so far – I was wondering whether Master Baggins said or did something… unusual when you arrived."

"Didn't seem very pleased about it, is all," Dwalin said and then turned back to the pony, running a hand along the front leg and pinching a tendon to get the pony to lift it's hoof for a check, which it did gamely enough. "And you saw it yourself – he wasn't prepared, or expecting us. The old man sprung us on him without much a warning."

"Was he angry?" Balin asked, not quite casually.

"Annoyed," Dwalin said. "Kept muttering to himself, but you heard that too. He did serve me supper, and it was good too – and warm… although," he paused to reach for a hoof pick, "that might've been his own supper, now that I think about it."

"Ah," Balin said, pursing his lips. They'd not made a very good showing of them, had they? He'd sensed that Master Baggins hadn't been too happy with them – the hobbit had kept on muttering and nattering in the background all the way until Thorin had arrived… which was rather interesting, now that he thought about it. Master Baggins' complaints had quite stopped, when Thorin had arrived. "So he was just annoyed and muttered, but nothing else?" Balin asked thoughtfully. "He didn't try to throw us out."

"No, he didn't. Hobbit manners, I suppose, or maybe he just figured he couldn't have managed it," Dwalin said and frowned. "There was something that right bothered me, now that I think about it, before you came. The way he stared."

"Stared?" Balin asked, pausing in his brushing. "How do you mean?"

"Just that – he kept staring at me, all intense and quiet like," Dwalin said and after picking rocks and dirt off the hoof, he moved onto the next one, lifting it and holding cradling it on one powerful palm while picking it gently clean with the hoof pick. "Just sat there and stared."

"I suppose he hadn't seen many dwarves before," Balin mused, and returned to the brushing. When ever they travelled through shire, it was through the northern parts, which both cut the travel down by days when heading to Bree and such.

"Funny you should mention that, actually," Dwalin said and moved to the next hoof. "He did ask if we knew each other. Hmh, maybe that's why he stared – thought he knew me."

"Hmm well that is interesting," Balin mused. "He's seen some dwarves before, then."

"Enough to not like us much, at any rate," his brother muttered.

They were quiet for a while, Balin finishing on his pony and moving onto Ori's mare while Dwalin finished on the hooves of Fíli's pony and started brushing it down. They could hear sounds coming from the main camp, Fíli and Kíli and Bofur were singing judging by the sound of it. Food was probably soon done, seeing that they were celebrating.

"Why the interest in the halfling?" Dwalin asked then. "Nothing much to him, as far as I can see. Soft little fellow, not really suited for this quest."

"Isn't he?" Balin asked, glancing at him. "He did well enough with the trolls, you might recall."

Dwalin paused at that, casting him a look. "And _you_ might recall that he got himself caught and hoisted up," he pointed out, frowning. "And then we were captured too. He did well enough there, indeed."

"Didn't die, did he? And in the end he stalled for time for Gandalf," Balin said and frowned. "I wonder how did he know that Gandalf would come to us anyway – I though the wizard had stalked right off. Hm. Anyway, looking at the result of the whole ordeal, I'd say he did pretty well. We lost none of the ponies," he pointed out, patting the mare's side compassionately. "None of the company died. No one was even injured, not even slightly. And three trolls got turned to stone. And there was treasure."

"Luck," Dwalin grumbled.

"Luck… or good design," Balin said, and looked at him.

"Design?" Now Dwalin was frowning at him. "By _Baggins_?"

"Who knows," Balin said, shaking his head. "Thorin might be just overly cautious about this whole thing, but you have to admit, it's a little unusual. Not just what happened, and how well everything turned out in the end, but whole matter of Bilbo Baggins. After all, why would a wizard as well known and as well travelled as Gandalf the Grey Wanderer bring a _hobbit_ on a quest with a dragon at the end?" he asked, and glanced at Dwalin.

"And a very stuffy hobbit at that," his brother muttered, scowling. "You think there's something they're not telling us?"

"Oh, I think there's a lot of things they're not telling us," Balin chuckled, shaking his head. "I am just wondering how many of those things concern Bilbo Baggins. Because the more I think on it, the less it makes sense. To bring a hobbit merely because the dragon doesn't know the scent of a halfling? It's not a very sound theory – because should Smaug wake up, it will take only one whiff and then he'll know, whether he knows the name of it or not."

Dwalin was quiet for a moment. "Do you recall," he then said, very slow, "the way he said he knew what a dragon was?"

Balin thought back to it. Bofur, in his usual manner, had painted a whole picture of Smaug – well, partial, horrifying picture. The annoyance on Baggins voice he'd assured that, yes, he knew what a dragon was, had been fairly pointed.

"He fainted though, when he read the contract," Dwalin pointed out. "With great drama too. Not very impressive, that, never mind what secret he has."

"Hm. Funny, how he faints in the middle of reading a _contract_ , but not when facing trolls, don't you think?" Balin asked meaningfully, turned back to the pony. "Handy skill that," he then mused, chuckling. "Could've saved me quite a number of boring council meetings back in Ered Luin."


	12. World Ahead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo returns home to find it just as he left it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another unbetaed one.

Bilbo let himself into his smial with a great, satisfied sigh.

Home at last, and for once, everything was just as it ought be. There were no uninvited guests or unexpected turns, indeed, everything in Bagend was just as had left it, and for a moment Bilbo just stood on the front hall, breathing in the long missed smell of home. After such a long and sad and dear adventure, it was good to be back where he belonged.

Though he was rather tempted to unburden himself right there and there, drop his pack and shield and swords all on the floor in great big heap, he respected his things far too much for that. They'd seen him through half the world, after all. So he hoisted his back down gently instead, resting his shield against the wall, soon joined by his swords, Sting and the so far nameless orc machete. They looked strange indeed, sitting there, dusty and dirty from travel, in his nice and clean smial.

He'd clean them tonight, Bilbo decided, and give his shield a proper polish.

For now, though, he was thinking of a nice long hot bath, maybe with a glass of wine of there was any at all left in his cellar, and then, oh, then some proper clean hobbitish clothes that were not riddled with tears and stains and missing all their buttons. He was just about to put that marvellously enticing thought into action by taking off his cloak, when there was a knock at the door. And not any knock – a knock of wood on wood.

Frowning, Bilbo reached for Sting and held it in his left hand by the scabbard, as he turned to the door. Lot of hobbits had seen him arrive, he'd caused a bit of a stir even, but guests so soon?

Slowly, he cracked the door open – and then tugged it open all the way, utterly astonished. "Gandalf?" he asked and peered up at him – sure enough, there was the grey rope and pointy hat and all "It is you! What on Earth are you doing here?"

"And where, pray tell, should I be?" The wizard asked with great harrumph before looking him over, arching an eyebrow at the Dwarven pin on his cloak. "A nice welcome that it – but you remember me, and that's good, that's very good indeed."

Bilbo snorted. They'd parted ways less than two days ago, he hardly could have forgotten. But then he did have something of a track record there, he supposed. "My memory isn't that bad," he said and held the door ajar. "Come in, come in – I just arrived myself. Haven't got the foggiest if I even have anything to eat here, but I should able to whip up a cup of tea."

"You've been travelling then?" Gandalf asked, sounding surprised and pleased. "And for no small walking holiday either, if the state of your pantry is in question. No, no, I can't stay, too much more to arrange before the night."

"Has something come up?" Bilbo asked, blinking confusedly at him. Had he been travelling? Was the wizard joking?

"Adventure, master Baggins, has come up – and I am in search for members to take part in it," Gandalf said and peered curiously into the smial, his eyes landing on the orc machete and the shield. He hummed with interest and then looked at Bilbo. "And I do believe you are just the hobbit to ask."

"Adventure? Gandalf, I've been on the road for well over a year, I only just came home -" Bilbo said, confused and exasperated, and then stopped with a sigh as the wizard stared at him severely. "Is it very important?" he then asked, rather plaintively.

"Yes, I do believe it is – and a great long journey it will be too," Gandalf said, eyeing him and the sword Bilbo was still, he realised, holding. "And maybe travelling in company will do you some good – you seem mighty paranoid."

"Well it has been a long year," Bilbo sighed, thinking longingly of his bath and glass of wine and clean clothes. "Well I suppose it is easier to keep going than stop and go again -"

"Good, then it's decided!" Gandalf said, nodding. "We'll be over tonight – you can expect the first as the sun sets."

"Tonight – but Gandalf, I'm not even sure I have any food in my pantry, I haven't got anything to offer to guests -"

"It will be fine – I will merely tell them not to expect much," Gandalf said and without further ado used his staff to scrape a mark on Bilbo's door, again! "There. Good morning to you," he then said and nodded at Bilbo in parting

"Good morning? But wait, Gandalf!" Bilbo shouted after him – and how did someone so old move so fast? Must be those Big Folk legs of his. "At least tell me how many am I to expect!"

"Thirteen, my boy, and myself!' Gandalf said, and then he was gone.

Bilbo stared after him, dumbfounded. "Thirteen?" He asked. "Thirteen, again? What in earth…"

 

* * *

 

The surprises didn't end there, for the inside of his home ended up a little more unusual than he has thought. Not that anything had changed – indeed not, it was rather the opposite. Nothing had changed. Absolutely nothing.

There was no dust, or cobwebs, everything was as if he'd never left – even the air was fresh and softly homely, which by any reason it should not be. It should be stale and perhaps even a little dank, after a whole year and winter of not being aired once… but it was warm and dry and clean and quite pleasant actually.

And then came the biggest shock at the door to his pantry, which he expected to find empty, ransacked by hungry dwarves a year ago. Because it wasn't ransacked. It wasn't even lacking – no, it was absolutely full of food, from floor to ceiling, stocked to its full capacity.

At first Bilbo thought that maybe some relative of his had taken up to living in Bagend in his absence. But no, that couldn't be. There was nothing new in Bagend, no furniture, no clothes, nothing that shouldn't be there. And nothing of his was missing. Everything was as it had always been.

And his pantry was full of fresh food.

"Alright," Bilbo said slowly even as he reached for a block of cheese – it had been a long trip, after all. "Something isn't right here."

But there wasn't anything precisely wrong either. It was only that things were, well, undisturbed. A little too undisturbed. It was as if someone had rewound the clock back, or frozen Bagend in time. Could Gandalf do that? Had he done it? Bilbo thought back to the rather funny conversation from before and frowned. Strange, first that and now this.

Well. He could ask, once Gandalf returned at sundown. Which gave Bilbo some time to prepare.

So, strangeness be dammed, Bilbo was going to have his wine, and his bath, and some clean clothes too. He'd worry about this strangeness later. So decided, he rid himself of his cloak and headed to the bathroom, running his hand through his long hair. Maybe he should cut it, while he had the chance…

Well if he was going on the road again, might as well keep it long. Keeping up with haircuts was such a hassle on the road and with his luck he'd end up in another company of dwarves, crying bloody murder at every snip.

 

* * *

 

Bilbo threw together some simple soup and shoved a quick roast in the oven, slicing up all the bread, smoked ham and cheese ready for guests and then while everything cooked at slow simmer, he took all his travel gear to the sitting room, and went about checking everything. All his clothes needed replacing, and he quite happily switched the jacked he'd gotten from Dale to one that actually fit him. Everything else he burned, and gladly – year of too much activity and too few washes had turned his under things into something truly unmentionable and his shirts and trousers were beyond help.

Everything else he was happy to keep. The cloak would do with airing, the oilskin was still good, the water skin and his cooking gear was all tested true. He did add soap, a small knife for cooking, some spices and herbs for common ailments, and some other small things into his pack, but overall what he'd brought with was just about all he would need.

With that done, Bilbo turned to his weapons instead. Sting was no worse for wear – all he needed to do was wipe the sheath clean, and it would do splendidly. The orcish machete was ugly and dirty by design it seemed, but he gave it a polish and sharpened the edge before doing what he could for its simple sheath. Simple and ugly though it was, the machete was a handy tool, much better for whacking ones way through thick forests than Sting at any rate.

And then there was the shield which was in worst condition by far. It had already been in terrible need of a polish when Bilbo had gotten it, and after months on the road, it was in grater need of care still.

"You've shielded me and covered me through a number of skirmishes," Bilbo said, patting the angular Dwarven shield fondly. "Let's get you clean."

It turned out just as difficult a task as he thought it would – though sturdy Dwarven make, the shield was very old and, under the dirt, a little rusty even. So Bilbo was still at the task and rather wishing he had a dwarf at hand to help him, when the first guest arrived and a knock sounded through Bagend.

Time to face the next adventure, it seemed.

Checking in on the food on his way, Bilbo headed to the door and then, his hands covered in rust and dirt and his too long hair falling on his eyes, he pulled the door open.

And stared.

"Dwalin, at your service," the dwarf said, bowing low.

Bilbo blinked, pushed his hair from his eyes, and blinked again. It was indeed Dwalin and not the Dwalin he'd left in Erebor – there was a harsh tension at this dwarf's shoulders and look of mistrust on his face. Behind him, an had set and Hobbiton was growing dark. It was a familiar scene. Too familiar.

It was past, renewed.

"Bilbo Baggins, at yours," Bilbo finally said, feeling a little faint, and swallowed. Well, here he had a dwarf now, and a good and skilled one when it came to weapons too. "You wouldn't happen to know how to get rust off a shield?"

 

* * *

 

Dwalin blinked at the Halfling in front of him. He'd kept his expectations low, when Gandalf had informed them that he'd found their halfling burglar and that the one was ready to receive quests – rightly, he didn't know _what_ to expect. As far as he knew halflings were soft, kindly and gentle, and the idea of a halfling _burglar_ never did sit right with him.

The one standing in front of him didn't sit right with him either, with his shaggy long hair, shirt sleeves rolled up and black dirt all over his hands and under his fingernails. Dwalin could at a glance see scrapes and cuts and healing marks all over his bare shins and lower arms and when the Hobbit stepped aside to hold the door open, he could see calluses on his hands.

"A shield," Dwalin said, disbelief and interest both heavy in his voice. "You use a shield?"

"Well, as of late, yes," the hobbit said with a slight frown. "I picked up one rather recently, and it was in bad shape when I got it – never did get chance to give it a proper polish and now that I have the time, well. I don't seem to have the right grasp on how to polish something that isn't a straight blade, if I am strictly hones. Um, please, do come in," he said, coughing in obvious attempt to stop his babbling.

Dwalin stepped in, glancing around the smial. Another thing Gandalf had told them was not to expect a grand welcome – their burglar was fresh off the road himself, apparently, and his home had been empty and unattended for a while. Everything looked clean, though, the perhaps dirtiest thing being a ragged blue shawl with red outline that hung from a hook near by.

"Put your cloak where ever – I would like you to take off your boots too, keep the dirt to a minimum, but I understand if you don't," the hobbit, Baggins, said, pushing his hair from his eyes and looking around. "Um, let me get something for your weapons," he scuttled off and moment later came back, hauling with him a large, sturdy basket, made for laundry judging by the looks of it. "There, for your axes."

Dwalin narrowed his eyes, and then loosed Grasper and Keeper from their straps. He dropped them to the basket, pushing them to the further end so that when others came, they wouldn't knock their own weapons on them. "Well," he said, and took off his travel cloak. "About your shield, then…"

"Right this way," Baggins said, and Dwalin followed, curiously looking around. It was a fine looking hole, big and fairly spacious for a halfling, as far as he knew halflings anyway. With wooden supports and round hallways and doors, it looked down right cozy. A fine place, for a burglar.

The hobbit led him to what seemed to be a sitting room, with a blazing fire and, yes indeed, a shied resting on a tea table. It was in a state and no mistake, but it wasn't the rust and wear that Dwalin noted first – it was a the design. It was quite obviously a dwarven shield, and very old one.

"Where did you get this?" Dwalin demanded to know.

"Ruins of an old city of Men, half a year ago," Baggins shrugged. "Seemed like a shame to leave it behind, it was such fine design – since then it's definitely come in handy and I've grown fond of it. But I admit, I know little of upkeep of shields, especially one of such intricacy," he said with a wry expression, running a hand over the elaborate designs at the centre point, which were carved into the shield and thus had with their dips and valleys collected most of the rust.

"Do you know how to use it?" Dwalin asked suspiciously, casting a glance over Baggins' forearms and then, curiously, around the room – and there he saw a sword in his sheath, and a, "Is that an _orc_ blade?"

"Yes it is, and yes I know how to use a shield. Not well, mind you, but well enough," Baggins said and gave him a look. "Are you only going to interrogate me and not help me?" he demanded. "Because if so, allow me to get a glass of wine to weather me through it."

Dwalin arched an eyebrow at that and stepped up to the table, tugging the shield closer to examine it. Baggins was well on his way to polishing it, but the centre design was obviously giving him trouble. "Have you any vinegar?" the dwarf asked, tracing a finger over the designs and scraping a fingernail on the rust. "And a sturdy brush? A wire brush if you have one."

"I might do," the halfling muttered, running a hand through his hair and getting it rust stained. "I'll be right back."

Dwalin waited until he had left the room before turning to the swords instead. One was of elvish make, obvious by the design of it alone – the blade, when Dwalin pulled it out, was very fine and very sharp. The orc blade was a mere machete, and Baggins seemed to have just finished sharpening it – the edge was the cleanest part of it, through overall the blade was made of such  impure metal that it looked dirty by nature.

An orc blade next to an elf blade – and on top of that, a dwarven shield. Curious assortment of gear – but then, halflings did not make their own, did they?

But, for now, this whole ordeal was looking up. Baggins was still obviously of gentle folk – but he was not of the foolish, naïve type. He had weapons and seemed to know how to use them and how to value them. And the pack near by definitely stood in testimony of his wandering ways. He didn't shirk from a dwarf, didn't stutter or stammer like lot of hobbits were wont to do. And who knew, maybe he'd even stolen his elvish blade and orcish machete and dwarven shield from their original owners.

It seemed that for once the Wandering Wizard had came true for them.

 

* * *

 

Balin knocked on the round green door and waited. He had not liked for Dwalin to go ahead and meet the hobbit first – that, he felt, was bound to give a bad impression of their company. But Dwalin, ever concerned about others, had wanted to go first – to test the Hobbit's mettle and get a proper read of him and his home.

The Princes, by their station, should go first in absence of Thorin, after all – and Dwalin did not stand for that, not without making sure it was safe first.

Well, neither did Balin – and it had taken some fine talking but he'd managed to convince Fíli and Kíli to come in third and fourth instead, to give him time to soothe whatever offence Dwalin might have caused. All he could do was hope he wasn't too late yet.

The door was opened by a somewhat rust stained halfling with shaggy hair and sleeves rolled up. Balin bowed his head and introduced himself, "Balin at your service."

"Bilbo Baggins at yours – come in, come in," the hobbit said, brushing a hand over his cheek and leaving a black stain there. "Apologies if I don't take your cloak, my hands are, well," he trailed off, waving his fingers and shrugging. "You can hang it over there and here is a basket for your weapons."

Balin nodded and unstrapped his swords, leaving beside Dwalin axes in the basket before hanging. "I see one of my company is already here?"

"Yes, yes, right through here," the hobbit said and after Balin had hung his cloak, he followed the hobbit in. Baggins did not seem nervous or frightened so Dwalin hadn't gotten too badly to him, but he seemed distracted. That, Balin worried, could be both good and bad.

Then he saw the sitting room and his brother, and what had the hobbit distracted.

"Think I got it," Dwalin said with some triumph, lifting a wire brush and using a rag to wipe dirty oil – no, vinegar – off what looked like very old dwarven shield which he was in process of polishing.

"Did you, really?" Baggins said, leaning in to look. "Oh you did! Well done, master dwarf. You have my thanks."

Balin looked between them and the shield and then cleared his throat. "Brother," he said.

"Balin," Dwalin said and stood up from where he was sitting, leaving Baggins to wipe the shield clean. "Well look at you," Dwalin said, cackling. "You're shorter than I last saw you!"

"Wider, not shorter," Balin refuted, looking at Baggins as he tenderly finished polishing the shield. "I see you've been put into good use here," he then commented.

"Ah, Master Baggins had some trouble in tending to his equipment properly, I gave him a hand," Dwalin said. "Which reminds me, I have some oil for your shield, Master Baggins, should stop the rust forming so fast."

"That'd be right kind of you, Master Dwalin," the halfling said, finishing wiping the shield. "Have you some at hand right now? Might as well finish, while I have everything out. There might not be time later."

"Not on me, no – left it in my pack, back at the inn," Dwalin said, sounding almost apologetic. "There will be time tomorrow, evening when we make camp at the very latest."

"Well, that's fine then, I suppose," Baggins said and lifted the shield to take it to join a pair of blades by the wall, leaning it against the wall beside them. Balin arched an eyebrow at them and at Dwalin, who shrugged his shoulders.

Well, it seemed that their burglar was well armed, at least – and there was a travel work pack near by, which supported the Wizard's take of the halfling being the adventuresome type.

"I'm going to wash my hands," Baggins said and motioned through a doorway. "Go there, and there's some bread and such laid out for you – the food is still simmering though, but the bread ought to tide you over. I'll be right back to get you some drinks."

With that said, he bustled off, making faces at his dirty hands as he did.

"Well," Balin said, giving his brother a look. "Not as useless as you feared then."

"That remains to be seen," Dwalin grunted, moving forth and to the dining hall where there was a basket of recently sliced bread and plenty of stuff to put on it. "He claims to know how to fight, but I'll believe it when I see it. But he's travelled and seen battle, that much I know for sure."

"That's something at least," Balin said, and reached for a slice of bread.

 

* * *

 

Bilbo's hands shook a little and he scrubbed them twice as hard to try and make it stop. First Dwalin and now Balin – and though Dwalin hadn't stolen his food and Balin hadn't marched in and straight to his pantry like he owned the place, it was still so very, very much alike. And if he remembered it right, the next ones to arrive… would be Fíli and Kíli.

Who, the last Bilbo had seen them, had been laid in stone in Erebor, buried with their Uncle and King and every other dwarf and man that had fallen in the Battle of the Five Armies – and the Arkenstone too, which had been entombed with Thorin.

If the next ones to knock on his door were Fíli and Kíli then Bilbo would know for sure that this was not some truly elaborate and absolutely horrible prank done on him by the company – but that the past had truly came back to him. Or that he'd gone completely mad. He'd heard about that happening too – from these very dwarves, even. How warriors that fought in the War of Dwarves and Orcs that ended at Azanulbizar, when faced with return to home and peaceful life, completely lost themselves in the memories of the war. Warrior's Fatigue.

Bilbo had not seen much of war – just the very fringes of it – but he was from much simpler and easier life than hardy dwarves. Maybe what he'd seen and experienced was enough to Fatigue him in such way. It was entirely possible that he'd lost his mind.

Though, his pantry… the food was real, he knew that much. As was the lack of dust. And he certainly couldn't have come up with the vinegar trick that Dwalin had just showed him – Shire didn't have enough metal for people to know much about it's proper care.

And yet… this reality was all too fantastical to be believed.

"Oh, confound it all," Bilbo muttered and rinsed his hands. "If I've gone mad then I've gone mad. Nothing to it but face it head on."

Drying his hands on a cloth, Bilbo lifted his eyes and met his own gaze on the mirror. There was a dirt stain on his cheek which he brushed away with a sigh. He looked different. He _was_ different from what he'd been back then, at the start of it all. Bilbo the Dragonriddler was very different from Bilbo Baggins, Master of Bagend. Much like his shield, he was frayed and travel worn and not in his best polish.

If this was real and if Fíli and Kíli soon turned up to knock on his door… could he do this? Relive everything? Or better yet… could he _change_ everything?


	13. Rings of RPG

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gamer Fusion. Kinda.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unbetaed

> [Master of Bagend]  
>  [ **Bilbo Baggins** lv. 6]  
>  [Adventurer]

No matter how long Bilbo stared at his reflection on Beorn's great bathroom mirror, the glowing text atop his head didn't seem inclined to go anywhere. When he turned he's head, when he tilted it from side to side, the text just remained there, as if nailed down on the top of his head. When he tried to swipe at it to push it away or disperse it, his hand merely went through it. It was both incorporeal and infuriatingly persistent at the same time.

"Well, Bilbo, now you've done," Bilbo sighed at himself. "Gone utterly mad, you have."

He'd been seeing things ever since Misty Mountains. First he'd only thought there was something in his eyes – then that he'd been knocked over the head too many times, which granted was still a very real possibility. But the visions had persisted even after the headache had passed and of course… there was the Ring. The glowing rectangles in air and text above everyone's head he might be imagining – but the Ring and it's invisibility was harder to dismiss, seeing that he had proof of no one being able to see him when he used it.

No one could see the text and rectangles either and what that said about Bilbo's sanity, he had no idea.

"Bilbo, are you quite done in there?" Gandalf asked through the door, knocking against it with his staff judging by the sound of it. "Because there is a whole line of travel worn dwarves looking to have a wash here!"

"Yes, yes, I'll be right out," Bilbo said morosely, giving last look at the proof of his own madness. "I'll be right out."

He quickly washed the essentials, ignoring the text that popped into existence in front of his eyes, [MP recovery +5 for 20 minutes]. Once done he hurried out, glancing upwards at Gandalf and sure enough, the text there persisted too.

> [Gandalf the Grey]  
>  [ **Olórin** lv. ???]  
>  [Istari]

Whatever that was supposed to mean. There were similar lines of text atop everyone's heads too, though while some had three like Gandalf did, others – Ori, Bofur and Bifur – only had two lines, the topmost one missing. Not that Bilbo knew what that meant either.

He slid past the others without looking at their texts and hurried to nearest dark corner, to sulk in peace. He'd hoped not to see one on himself, but it had been a fools hope, it seemed – his sudden madness was complete. And he had no idea what to do about it.

Erebor was within their sights now. If he went and admitted his sudden ailment, it would no doubt stall their quest, or at least he'd be seen as far worse hindrance than even before – and he'd only just won Master Oakenshield's approval. And hard won it had been too. Bilbo did not think he'd bear to have to regain it, should he loose it in his madness.

His chin resting on top of his knees Bilbo tried to ignore the line of illusionary rectangles on the edge of his field of vision. It was hard not to see them, though. They were see through and faint when he paid no attention to them – but should his thoughts stray to them, they'd snap into clear visibility and glow similar to that on top of everyone's heads now. Which meant that the rectangles glowed and faded in turns which was highly distracting and in no ways comforting.

"Master Baggins?" A voice interrupted Bilbo's silent battle of wills with his insanity. "Are you feeling unwell?"

"No, I'm fine, merely deep in thoughts," Bilbo said and looked up.

> [Oakenshield]  
>  [ **Thorin** lv. 67]  
>  [King of Durin's Folk]

"You do not seem fine, if you don't mind me saying," Thorin said and sat beside him.

"Shouldn't I be the one saying that to you?" Bilbo asked, giving him a look. Thorin had been the first to wash, as Óin had wanted to see to his injuries, and his hair was still wet. Judging by his wince and the bandages showing past his shirt collar, there's been some damage. And considering that he'd been chewed by a warg…

"I will heal," Thorin said. "Injuries such as these hardly bother me – while you have been bothered all day."

Bilbo said nothing and did not look at the rectangles – though they all lit up regardless. "I'm fine – just tired I suppose," he said. "I'm sure I'll feel much better tomorrow."

"Hopefully so – journey to Mirkwood and through it won't be easy," the King of Durin's Folk said and leaned back against the wall. He looked at Bilbo seriously. "How did you get through Misty Mountains, Master Baggins?"

Bilbo hesitated. After loosing the gangly Gollum creature, he'd followed a glowing map that had, when he'd wished for one, popped into existence front of his eyes. Not that he could say that.

"I found a path, I think used by some creatures in the mountains," Bilbo said finally, which was true enough. "It was pure luck that it led outside." Which on other hand wasn't.

"Hmm. Well let us hope your luck holds our," Thorin said. "We will need all the luck we can get."

Silently Bilbo agreed – and then almost recoiled as large rectangle jumped at him in. In it was listed a litany of words and numbers – [Strength 5, Intelligence 9, Stamina 4, Wisdom 6, Dexterity 8, Luck 10, Power 15]. On the bottom there was a bit of text informing him that there were [12 Status Points available].

Bilbo almost teared up, trying to get the thing to just go away. Thorin gave him an alarmed look and quickly Bilbo looked away, wiping at his eyes.

"I'm sorry, Thorin, seems that I'm a bit more tired than I thought, I think I shall lie down for a bit -"

"I'm sorry," Thorin said. "I did not realise – was it first time you killed?"

Bilbo looked up, confused. "Um?" He asked and then realised – Azog and the orcs. "Oh, well. Yes?" Bilbo said and then felt miserable all over again. It was another thing he'd been trying to not think about too much. Not just the killing, but the numbers that had flashed with each strike… until they hadn't and the text atop the orc's head had faded.

"They are not like you and I, orcs, " Thorin said, in manner he probably thought was comforting. "They are evil and only know how to destroy and kill. You should not waste your sentiments over them."

"Yes, of course, you're right, " Bilbo said miserably and Thorin patted his shoulder.

"Rest up, master Baggins," the dwarf said as he stood. "Tomorrow well journey to Mirkwood. You will need your strength."

"Yes," Bilbo said feebly after him as another rectangle popped up at him.

> **[New Quest**!]  
>  [ **Travel to the Mirkwood forest**. Lv. 18]
> 
> [After a good night's rest, it's time to continue on your journey. Leave the Skinchanger's Cottage and reach the Mirkwood forest.]  
>  [Quest Reward: 300 Points of Experience]  
>  [Accept the Quest, **Yes** / **No** ]

Bilbo tried very hard not to whimper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I once had the idea of Rings of Power giving their owners Gamer abilities and here we are.


	14. Critical Thinking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Bilbo Baggins is the brains of your operation, it's just not a good operation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unbetaed

Bilbo sat staring listlessly at the stone Trolls, seriously rethinking his life and decisions of late, and of his commitment to Thorin's Company.

He had a feeling that a terrible mistake had been made somewhere along the way – by him – and now he wasn't entirely sure how to go about things. Because it was obvious now that he had made quite the mistake when he'd signed that document – especially considering how poorly it had been written.

He'd thought, not without reason, that the language of the Contract had been overly simplified and it's terms almost rudely plain and unambiguous on account of him being hobbit. Hobbit were, after all, a little and simple people, more so in the eyes of outsiders, and it wouldn't be first time folk bigger than them resorted to simpler words to make themselves understood. Now, well… now he wasn't quite so sure. He would need to ask Balin to see the contract again – perhaps he'd missed something.  

That was utterly beside the point, however. Point being the trolls, of course. Or perhaps not the trolls seeing that danger had been underlined several times on the Contract and the dwarves couldn't have foreseen the trolls. No, the point – and indeed the problem he now faced – was the company itself. And it's leadership.

Digging through his snot-laden coat, Bilbo took out his pipe and stuffed it full of leaf, far too much for a decent smoke, before reaching to take a twig to light it from the Troll's fire. After the leaf was properly lit, he took a few deep, calming breaths, letting the leaf soothe out the kinks and knots on him – and yet even that wasn't enough to soothe away the anxious realisation that good grief, he had made a big mistake coming here, had he not?

Don't get into adventures unless you know fully what you are getting into, Bilbo my lad, his mother had said. And he'd broken that very sacred rule at his very first proper adventure!

"Bilbo," Gandalf approached him and Bilbo looked over the cloud of smoke he was making. "There you are – here. This is about your size."

"Hmh?" Bilbo answered and accepted the dirty sword in it's dirty sheathe. "What – where did you get this?"

"Well you're lost in your own world, are you? We found the trolls' cave," Gandalf explained, pointing where he'd came from. "They had to stay somewhere during day time, after all, so there had to be one near by, and we found it. And from it we found many treasures, including several fine elvish blades. That one included."

Bilbo blinked at that and then bit gently on the pipe's mouth piece to hold it in place without his hands. Frowning, he unsheathed the little sword a bit.

"It's an old make," Gandalf said. "From Gondolin, if my eyes do not mislead me. Very handy smiths, in Gondolin – their steel glows as warning when orcs and goblins are near by. You could not ask for a finer blade."

Bilbo examined the blade, trying to feel some excitement over it – or even a truly hobbitish bashfulness over an unexpected gift. It looked very fine and very expensive and he tried, he truly did, to summon the proper denials and refusals which were expected when faced with such a thing. But they tasted ashen on his tongue before he even got to them and with a sigh he sheathed the sword once more. "It's very fine, Gandalf, thank you."

The wizard frowned at that and peered down at him, gripping his staff in both hands. "My dear boy, are you unwell? Did you get hurt – I imagine you feel very bruised but –"

"No I didn't get hurt," Bilbo said, brushing the dirt and dead leaves off the little sword. Even the scabbard was very fine. "I am quite well, it's just, hm," Bilbo frowned, biting on the pipe for a moment because, well, he was a hobbit and some things weren't just said out loud and yet. "Gandalf," he then said, taking the pipe in hand and casting a glance around to make sure no one was near enough to listen. "These dwarves, I…" he paused, trying to look for a word. "I was under the impression that our leader, that this quest itself, was under, uh… competent management."

Gandalf blinked at that, leaning back a bit. "You quest Master Thorin's capability? I assure you he is a very accomplished dwarf."

Bilbo looked at him with mixed feelings of anxiety and disbelief. "Did you not see what happened?" he asked slowly.

"Thorin and his company very valiantly laid down their swords to save your life," Gandalf said. "Not a small thing for a dwarf, you should feel honoured."

"Yes, it was very fine indeed and I do feel honoured," Bilbo said, smiling briefly because truly he hadn't thought they would, for a moment there. "But Gandalf, they, I mean…" he let out a frustrated breath. "It has come to by attention – or, rather, I believe I observed that… Master Oakenshield had no plan what so ever," he said. "When he did that very act."

"Well," Gandalf said. "I suppose he had no time to plan. It was very sudden, all of it."

Bilbo stared at him for a moment and then looked down. "Well I suppose that's true enough, but," he wetted his lip, desperately trying to come up with a way to word his worry on this matter. "At the time I was very honoured," he said slowly and carefully. "And deeply moved. But I thought he laid down his arms with clear idea what he was on about. That he still had a plan as to how to get out of the situation. And he… did not." Bilbo took a deep breath. "Indeed I had to stall for time," he said, looking at Gandalf. "None of them even thought of it, and it took them quite a bit of time to catch on."

He thought he was making his concern well understood, but Gandalf was only nodding along as if he was merely stating facts, not voicing his serious apprehension. "Well, it all came out well in the end," Gandalf said finally and smiled. "So there is nothing to it."

Bilbo was quiet for a moment. "If you had not come we would have been _eaten_ ," Bilbo said very slowly and very clearly. "And Master Oakenshield, very valiant though his actions were… only exacerbated the situation and then had no way, no plan, no notion of any kind of how to get out of it. Not that I could see, anyway."

Gandalf hummed at that and Bilbo finally had to ask, there was no way around. "Gandalf, these dwarves, they are quite… thick, aren't they?"

"Well they're dwarves so of course they are a bit thick," Gandalf said, like it was the most natural thing in the world. "But they are very capable in their own way – Thorin Oakenshield is a fine warrior, and a great smith besides – "

"Who has, going by the evidence present here, no problem solving abilities to speak of, and dare I say, very little skill in forethought," Bilbo said plainly. "Seeing that he led every single dwarf in a front assault, shouting war cries as he did and thus got them all handily captured, one and all."

Gandalf coughed with amusement. "It's a fine day when a hobbit questions a dwarven king in battle tactics," he said, though with some small bit of unease.

Bilbo shook his head. "Hobbits don't have kings," he said. "For the precise reason that when one relies on hereditary ruler, there is never any guarantee that the next leader is as wise and capable as the one before."

"I thought that the Thain has been a largely hereditary title," the wizard said plainly, giving him a look.

Bilbo stared at him. "The Thain," he said slowly. "You do know that Shire is ruled by the Mayor, don't you, Gandalf? Who, I would have you know, goes to office by popular vote. The Thain only has very little local power, and largely only inside his own family."

"Oh," Gandalf said and frowned, looking taken aback. "No I did not know that, actually."

Bilbo shook his head. Big folk. "That's beside the point here," he said and twiddled with his pipe. "Gandalf, do you think Master Oakenshield has a plan?" he questioned. "For this quest as whole as well as for the dragon at the end of it? Do we actually know… what we're on about?"

"Well, we have a travel plan," Gandalf said.

Bilbo waited expectantly, but nothing more was forthcoming. "So, we only know… the route we're going to take. And nothing else," he said just to clarify. "And so far we've been waylaid off that travel route once already, by trolls. For which no one had any plan."

"To be fair, no one could've expected trolls," Gandalf said.

"But considering the word of the contract, we were expecting trouble, yes?" Bilbo asked, and shook his head. "Goblins and orcs at least, if I read Balin right last night when he told us of Azanulbizar. Tell me, should we run into goblins or orcs… do we have a plan for that, then?"

Gandalf said nothing, eyeing him seriously. "Bilbo my dear boy," he said then. "It's a little too late for second thoughts, don't you think? You signed the contract and we're well on our way."

"I am not having second thoughts – or well, yes I am, but," Bilbo grimaced and took a frustrated breath, trying to calm down. "I was led to belief that there was a cohesive plan in play, and that this quest was led by a competent leader," he said and shook his head. "I thought this venture was planned out or at least that most potential risks had been taken into account – or if not, then the members present here had enough combined ability, experience and aptitude to deal with the unexpected. But judging by what I've seen tonight… no one here has any idea what they're actually on about!"

Gandalf let out a sound that was half a sigh and half laugh. "Oh, hobbits," he said. "Adventures aren't something you truly plan ahead, Bilbo. The wild is a lawless place that doesn't take your planning into account at all. Things occur as they do, and all you can do is prepare for the worst."

"But that's the _thing_ , you old _fool_ ," Bilbo almost shouted, because it was starting to dawn on him that Gandalf did not get the issue and he was starting to think it was entirely intentional on the wizard's part. "Obviously no one here is prepared, at all! Am I to expect that the next time something unexpected turns along, we're going to get captured again without so much as by your leave, and our only hope of rescue will be a miracle, as in you, appearing from nowhere?"

"Well," Gandalf said, frowning. "That tends to be the way things go, with these things," he admitted finally.

Bilbo stared at him flatly for a long, tense moment and then, without another word, emptied his pipe on the troll's fire and turned to leave. Gandalf gave him an astonished look. "Bilbo my dear fellow, where are you going?"

"To question a dwarf on the concept of critical thinking!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [inspired entirely by this tumblr post and it's excellent tags](http://leupagus.tumblr.com/post/38703750028/gentle-reminder-that-while-the-dwarves-have)


	15. Master of Bagend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two weeks after inheriting Bagend, Bilbo Baggins held a great big celebration.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unbetaed

Two weeks after inheriting Bagend, Bilbo Baggins held a great big celebration. It was in absolutely horrible taste, everyone agreed – dear Missus Belladonna was barely in her grave, and already the young lad was holding great big parties, the nerve. But then he was very young, not yet adult at all, not yet old enough to make any sort of informed decisions.

"I did say so, didn't I?" said Longo Sackville-Baggins to his wife, Camelia Sackville-Baggins. "Too young for the spot he is, too young by far – such a big smial for such a lonely little lad too. He should be taken in by more experienced and _responsible_ folk, who can steer and rear him right and proper."

"No sense, that boy, no sense at all," Camellia agreed, shaking her head in condemnation.

But though there was great disapproval and much tutting and tsking, no one turned down an invitation. After all, the Baggins family of Bagend were _terribly_ wealthy, what with Missus Belladonna, bless her toes, haring off in half a dozen adventures each year and coming back with all sorts of treasures – and Mister Bungo had been no slacker either, no sirreh, he'd done his fair share of breadwinning for the family with his business and dealings.

Even though it had been inherited by what was now proving out to be a truly harebrained fool of a boy, no one could deny that it was quite the thing, all that wealth. Fool Bilbo Baggins might be, but he was a wealthy fool, no doubt used to all sorts of luxuries and all sorts of boundaries. Without parents to limit his pursuits, those boundaries were all asunder – and no doubt he was looking to make himself well known and loved in the society around him. And people of Hobbiton found that they quite liked the idea of being bribed by this foolish boy.

So, everyone turned up in the great celebratory party of Bilbo Baggins, the new owner of the Bagend. Everyone who came with an invitation waved it around with great pleasure and those who had none, well, they turned up anyway. And it was a great party indeed, with great deal of food going around – and no wonder, the young Baggins lad had hired most of the widows and widowers of Shire to do the cooking and preparations. There was no one that night who went hungry.

There was much talk about young Bilbo's sensibilities, though. There had been talk before, of course – not yet of the age and already so wealthy and with such a mighty smial, well, it just was unusual. Many were the relatives who would've very much liked to take young Bilbo in hand, teach him the ways of the world – and, naturally… take up the upkeep of Bagend while they were at it.

It was a very fine smial – biggest in Hobbiton, and quite clearly the nicest.

"Holding parties like these," said Longo Sackville-Baggins. "Obviously no sense in that head of his. No, it's quite clear, he is far too young to manage, will squander way his parent's good fortune within the year. He must be taken in hand."

"And how do you suppose to manage that?" asked Chica Chubb, eyes narrowed. "There ain't a Head of House to ask it of now that Belladonna is gone and it will be while before another is selected - and the Mayor don't care none. And that Thain of the Tooks –" she clucked her tongue disapprovingly.

"It was all together wrong to let Belladonna stay as head of house, not a drop of Baggins blood in her," Longo said and shook his head. "There ain't no one to ask from, so no asking is needed. Once this foolishness," he motioned at all the food and drink. "Is done and over with, I will go to the boy and have it done with. Me and Camellia will move to Bagend, and set it all to rights."

He wasn't the only one who thoughts it was a splendid idea – indeed, every relative distant or otherwise who lived near Hobbiton and might stake a claim on Bagend had very much the same notion. While Bilbo Baggins went about, laughing and making merry, good half a dozen aunts, uncles, distant cousins and other relations were planning their move on Bagend.

A great number of them – in fact, all of them – were quite willing to use whatever force necessary to make their plans into fruition too.

Utterly ignorant of all the plotting and scheming happening over his fortunes, Bilbo Baggins ate and drank and danced to his hearts content with all the lovely lasses and lads whose eyes lingered on him for a little too long. It was by all accounts quite successful little party, hardly one that could be topped any time soon. It lasted late into the night until the moon came out and closed with number of slow dances and much not so surreptitious necking and snogging in the dark.

And in the end Bilbo Baggins retreated into his big and mighty smial, alone and satisfied – and by anyone's observation, completely oblivious of all the eyes resting on Bagend's fine green door.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Longo Sackville-Baggins got up with every attention of heading up to Bagend and seeing to young Bilbo before he could wrestle himself up from what must be a prodigious case of hangover. Longo had a good and solid plan, which mostly involved very stern words, maybe a knock over the head if necessary, and drugged tea if everything came to head. He rather doubted it would, though.

After all, Bilbo Baggins had proved himself quite weak the night previous, with the whole celebration foolishness. And so soon after Missus Belladonna's death, truly, the boy had no sense what so ever.

Longo had it all planned out and he was so keen on his plan, that he didn't quite notice the way his stomach roiled before he made it to the toilet and then didn't quite manage to get up again.

Elsewhere in Hobbiton, Chica Chubb was having something of a similar problem, having been toilet bound since her early morning – and elsewhere still, many more of Bilbo's relatives were bound to their bathrooms or chamber pots if they had no modern pluming. It was a terrible messy business, utterly ungraceful and quite embarrassing – and, everyone soon found, outright uncontrollable.

It wasn't before noon that one of the guests of the previous night's celebrations managed to make her way up to Bagend, to bound on Bilbo's door and demand answer. "Rotten!" Camelia Sackville-Baggins snarled at young Bilbo's face. "All your food, rotten, spoiled! You've given the whole village food poisoning!"

Bilbo blinked at that, his hair tousled and his eyes wide with downright doe-like expression. "Food poisoning?" he asked, astonished, a cup of fresh tea in his hand.

"Yes, food poisoning! Everyone in Hobbiton is bound to their toilets!" Camelia snapped at him. "And don't think I don't know what you did, you fool of a boy – bought the cheapest goods, didn't you, the oldest meat off the counter, the bruised and browned vegetables and fruits? Oh, I should box your ears in!"

"Food poisoning?" Bilbo asked again.

"Oh, you, you – Baggins! Yes, food poisoning! It is a thing that happens when you eat bad food – not that you would know, cosy in your great big smial, strutting all grand!"

Bilbo blinked at her again and then, humming, sipped her tea. "I did not give you food poisoning, Auntie Camellia," he said then.

"Oh, didn't you?" she demanded, dangerously. "Really? Do you really think that you can just –"

"No," Bilbo cut in and smiled firmly. "The food was brought fresh off the market – asks the sales people if you doubt me, they surely wouldn't have forgotten it, we bought so much after all. So trust me, I did not give you food poisoning," he said and his smile turned utterly sweet. "I just poisoned you."

Camellia ground to a halt at that. "What?" she asked.

"I poisoned you," Bilbo said, smiling kindly. "The food was fine, trust me, not a bit of it was off – it was just laden with, – well. With little this and that, really." He shrugged. "I'm sure you understand that I don't tell you what, precisely."

"You – you – _you_ poisoned us?" Camellia demanded. "You poisoned _everyone in Hobbiton_?!"

"And quite ways into the countryside around it," Bilbo agreed and sipped his tea calmly. "There were many uninvited guests, after all."

"You son of a –" Camellia growled and swallowed her curses. "What did you use? When will it wear off?"

"Why – it won't," Bilbo said and smiled. "Not before you get a dose of the antidote, of course. And that, my dearest aunt… will cost you." He shrugged and turned to head inside again. "Do go and spread the word. And, Auntie," he glanced over his shoulder. "No more talk about anyone _claiming_ Bagend from me."

 

* * *

 

And so Bilbo Baggins became known as Master of Bagend, and for many, many years people of Hobbiton paid him in tithes and never forgot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I dunno. I just wanted to write Bilbo poisoning… everybody, pretty much.


	16. The Great Grocer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because there had always been a Baggins in Bagend, that was what they called him in Hobbiton.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unbetaed

Bilbo sat back and just watched for a long time. In part it was because he didn't know what to do. In part it was because he knew what he wanted to do, and that… was a bit problematic.

Thorin was going mad. Had already gone mad, really, over a pile of gold and a mountain city that was as lifeless as, well, a ruin. Because that was what Erebor was, currently. A ruin. Never mind the fact that parts of it were perfectly preserved, the stone as finely polished as it had been during full Dwarven occupation – a ruin was a ruin. And judging by the looks of it, Thorin intended to keep it as a ruin.

So much potential in Erebor and Dale and the lands of the Lonely Mountain – and first thing Thorin had done was barricade them inside the ruin city of Erebor, as if handful of dwarves and a hobbit was enough to not just hold the mountain, but to make it a kingdom again. Maybe, in his mind, it was enough.

Shaking his head Bilbo rummaged around the inner pockets of his too large coat. His fingers brushed over the Arkenstone before he took out his pipe instead. He had no pipeweed at hand, but just to handle the pipe gave him something to concentrate on. Something other that Thorin, who was brooding over the gold like any moment it would hatch even more gold. Or as if staring at it would make it yield the Arkenstone.

Or as if having the gold would make him stronger than the army of elves camped outside Erebor's barricaded gates.

Bilbo kind of wanted to shake him. He'd wanted to do that for a while now, but the urge had gotten more insistent with these last few days. If he'd thought it would've done any good…

Sighing Bilbo stood and left Thorin and the gold behind. It was time for him to make some decisions about himself, and his place here. Because while Thorin and the Company were willing to die for a pile of gold, Bilbo had no intention of doing anything the sort.

He'd only just started to enjoy his life – only just started to really live it. And he wasn't about to lose what had finally made it liveable just because Thorin Oakenshield was a fool.

 

* * *

 

Because there had always been a Baggins in Bagend, that was what they called him in Hobbiton. Maybe it made the weirdness easier for them to swallow – just slap a familiar title on the thing and maybe it stopped seeming so strange. He hadn't minded though – he'd been kind of hoping the same thing. That if he just… lived this life a little longer, it would become normal for him. Would stop seeming so goddamned weird.

It never really worked though. Even buying Bagend with a small mountain of gold from Sackville-Bagginses and settling down into very determined attempt at leading normal hobbit life didn't work.

It distracted him for a while, sure – decorating and filling Bagend with all things one needed around a home kept him well preoccupied for weeks. And then there was the garden, planting and maintaining it was another welcome distraction. But at the end of it, what was he left with?

A smial that was far too big for him, a nice garden full of herbs he didn't actually need, and not much else. It was semi normal, sure enough, and with some more gold splurged on fine hobbitish wardrobe he even looked the part. A proper, normal gentlehobbit, living a little lavishly maybe, but still normal enough.

Outwardly normal anyway. On the inside it was a whole different thing. Even learning to answer to the name of "Master Baggins" didn't change things. It wasn't normal. None if it was normal. And no matter how homely he made his kitchen and how cosy his bedroom was, it didn't change things.

He was stuck in a world that wasn't actually his own – and only he knew it wasn't even real.

 

* * *

 

"You want your contract amended?" Balin asked, with look of conflict and betrayal on his face. "Lad, we've only just gotten the mountain back and we've yet to defend it, never mind counting out the treasure. You intend to leave now, when we're so close to seeing Thorin crowned?"

"That's not it," Bilbo said, frowning. "I'm not leaving. I merely want my share of the treasure in different form. The gold doesn't matter to me – I don't need it and I wouldn't even use it. I want something else."

Balin frowned, now suspicious. "In what form you want it, then?"

"As land," Bilbo said. "I'm want to own land around the Lonely Mountain."

Balin blinked and his eyes widened with disbelief. "All of it? Have you lost your senses?"

"Not all of it – just a share of it equal to the fourteenth share of the Quest's Proceed," Bilbo said and arched his eyebrows at Balin's expression. "And I mean topside – I don't care about the mines or tunnels. I mean the surface land."

"Oh," Balin said and relaxed "Well that's different matter. Hmm. The surface land was owned mostly by Dale, however. Erebor owned all land below ground, naturally, but the topsoil was the territory of Men."

"I see," Bilbo said. "So I'd have to try and get the land from Bard…"

"Bard's right claim to these lands isn't confirmed," Balin reminded him.

"Well neither is Thorin's and that doesn't seem to bother him much, " Bilbo said and considered it for a moment. "What do the elves want from Thorin? " he then asked. "The gems? Can I amend my contract so that take them as my share?"

Balin eyed him for a long moment before asking, very slowly, "What are you planning, Master Baggins?"

Bilbo shrugged his shoulders. "I plan to put my talents to good use."

"Politics is hardly a burglar's game," Balin warned him.

"Luckily for us, I'm not much of a burglar," Bilbo answered and smiled. "Games on other hand I am pretty good at."

 

* * *

 

He'd had started playing Middle Earth out of boredom. Mmorpgs weren't really his thing – he was more a city builder kind of guy – but Middle Earth had boasted elaborate estate and land ownership system, and a market that had an actually fluctuating economy. Players could even start their own kingdoms, if they had the land, the people and the money for it.

It had sounded interesting and his play time with all of his old games had started to border on frightening. So he'd decided to have a go.

Of all the races present in Middle Earth, a hobbit had seemed most like what he liked. He wasn't too into pvp or combat in general, which every other race seemed to be geared towards, and while Hobbits had their own combat specialities, they were more about the land ownership system. And farming – the farming boost hobbits got was almost ridiculously overpowered. Shire, the Hobbit "kingdom", was pretty much nothing but farms and orchards, and if you played the game right, couple of farms could be even more lucrative than owning a good mine. Throw in cooking, or alchemy, or any other industry that got it's materials from agriculture…

So he chose hobbit, selected the name Bilbo – both his first and last names smashed together which had ended up sounding suitably hobbitish – and dived right in.

Middle Earth quickly became his favourite game. He was never the strongest or best player or anything – he rarely if ever did any combat at all. Mostly he just managed his farms and trades. Occasionally he bought or sold land and every now and then he put together a trade caravan, but mostly he just stayed in the Shire, farming, selling, playing with the markets, and of course pitching in on the building of player villages. It was fun. And it didn't hurt that Shire was beautiful.

Overall though he never thought Middle Earth was really ground breaking or anything – just another weirdly addictive mmorpg and nothing else. The combat was simple and many other games had economy and land ownership. Even the lore wasn't anything new. So he'd never thought there was nothing earth shattering about Middle Earth.

Not until he got stuck in it, anyway.

 

* * *

 

Thorin wasn't too happy with any of it, when Bilbo and Balin approached him with the amended contract. He obviously had had no intention of giving the White Gems of Lasgalen back to Thranduil and the fact the Bilbo wanted them made him very suspicious indeed.

"And what would you with them?" Thorin demanded. "Give them to Thranduil, I suppose? For what end?"

"The one you're too blind to see," Bilbo muttered and shook his head. "My purpose is my own and no issue for you, I think. All I need is for you to decide – which is more valuable to you, then?" He asked, betting on the Gold Sickness to do his negotiating for him. "One fourteenth of the gold – or the gems?"

Thorin struggled with it for a moment. "To have what our enemy wants has a worth of its own," he said. "What Thranduil would give for them…"

"Is more valuable than the gold of your ancestors?" Bilbo said and Balin winced beside him. Thorin teetered on the edge, his eyes straying to the mounds of gold beside them. "You know that once all this is said and done, I will return to the Shire. And I'll take my share with me," Bilbo added, laying it a little thick now, but Thorin didn't notice. "And I'd rather not take the gold – but I will if I must. One fourteenth of it."

That met it's mark and Thorin turned to glare at him. Bilbo met it evenly. "So, give me the gems instead," he said, "and I will call my contract complete, my share accounted for."

"Fine," Thorin growled and took the amended contract from Balin, signing it angrily. "Take your gems and leave. Abandon us in our hour of need, I care not."

Bilbo took the contract and signed it under Thorin – followed by Balin. Once it was signed and witnessed, Thorin turned his back on them and Balin led Bilbo to the gems alone, frowning all the whole Bilbo wrapped the starlight gems in fine velvet.

"I hope you know what you're doing, lad," the dwarf said. "I truly do."

"As do I, " Bilbo agreed and then to Balin's astonishment, took out the Arkenstone and handed it to him. "And I truly hope you know what to do with this."

Balin accepted it slowly. "You had it all this time?" He asked, shocked.

"And never knew what to do with it, with Thorin being how he is now," Bilbo said and wrapped the bundle holding the White Gems tight. "I'm glad leaving that decision to you, now."

Balin frowned and then hid the Arkenstone under his coat, shouldering the burden Bilbo knew all too well with better grace than Bilbo had. "What do by you plan to give the Men?" he asked.

"Nothing – I aim for trade, not charity," Bilbo said and chuckled. "You know, it's funny that Thorin called me a grocer when we first met. He wasn't actually wrong."

 

* * *

 

He'd failed at living a normal life in Bagend rather miserably. He couldn't help it – he grew bored. Life in Hobbiton was just… slow compared to where he came from. And life of a wealthy gentlehobbit was even slower than the life of most hobbits.

There just wasn't anything to do, once he'd gotten the smial set up. There were no smart phones or TVs or computers to distract yourself with – there weren't even all that many books to read. And, ironically enough, the one thing he missed the most was playing video games.

He grew bored. And it didn't help that the people of Hobbiton… well. It took him years to see them as anything other than NPCs

He hadn't met any other gamers in Middle Earth since getting stuck – and he'd looked. Hobbiton, Tuckborough, Buckland and Michel Delving were all full of NPCs, no players in sight. Bree was the same. Ghost towns, all of them. He'd even sent out messages to the more populous towns southern Eriador and over Misty Mountains, hoping word might reach somebody… but nothing had came up. It was starting to look like he was really the only one.

It was lonely and hollow feeling, to be so completely alone. It was beyond anything he'd ever experienced, even the original realisation that he was stuck inside a video game didn't compare.

So eventually he'd fallen into old habits to keep himself preoccupied. Only here there weren't other players to compete with. There were only hobbits – and they had none of his ambition.

By the time Gandalf came, Bilbo owned most of the land in Hobbiton.

 

* * *

 

Bard stared at Bilbo for a long while silently, trying to read him – trying to decide whether he was mad or not. "And why, precisely would you pay gold for the land here – and why would you pay me for it? The land here is spoiled by dragon fire and I haven't any legal claim to these lands. Why not ask the dwarves?"

"They claimed the surface was owned by Dale," Bilbo shrugged. "And I like land – it's the best form of wealth I know, one that renews and replenishes."

"You're a farmer," Bard realised.

"Something like that, yes," Bilbo said. "Though in Shire everyone farms, to some extend."

Bard considered that for a moment and then shifted where he sat, leaning in. "With the winter upon us, there is little farming you can do here now. So why bother now?" He asked suspiciously.

Bilbo eyed him and then went for an answer he could accept and understand. "The land will never be cheaper than it is now," he said. "And since the elves are leaving, Thorin won't have hold to his word. You can't afford to refuse me."

Bard grit his teeth and leaned back again, grimly satisfied. "You're right about that," he grunted. "And if I refuse to sell the land directly around Dale, and only that much further away?"

"That's fine by me," Bilbo shrugged. He didn't want the land around the city anyway – the risk of it being sacked and robbed and raided was too high. "I'll buy any land you're willing to sell, no matter where it is."

Bard was silent force long time. "I need to think on this, and talk with my people. And I need proof of your ability to pay."

Bilbo nodded took some thing from inside his jacked. A unmarked half pound bar of gold, which he set on the table between them. "My starting bid is one of these for every hectare, but I'm willing to negotiate."

Bard stared. "Not Ereborean coins?" He then asked and lifted the bar up. "I'm going to have this tested, if you don't mind."

"Keep it," Bilbo said and stood. "You know where to find me once you've decided."

 

* * *

 

Seeing Gandalf had been a surprise and yet... not. Every player of Middle Earth knew Gandalf the Grey after all – he was the instigator behind pretty much all the story quests. No matter what race you played, Gandalf was there to sweep you off into a quest.

It was just that Bilbo had done his story quests years before he'd even gotten stuck inside the game. And once your story quests were done, they were done.

And yet there he had been, Gandalf the Quest Giver, in Hobbiton, looking for him in particular.

"You are the one that sent this to Rivendell?" Gandalf asked – and showed him one of the many letters he'd sent out. "Judging by the word of this, you're looking for your contemporaries. Have you found them yet?"

"No, not yet," Bilbo admitted, looking at him suspiciously. Gandalf wasn't the first major NPC Bilbo had met – he'd met both the Old Took and the Mayor of Michel Delving, both of whom were real enough – but Gandalf was an NPC of a different calibre altogether.

"Have you gone out looking? " Gandalf asked, leaning onto his staff and peering down at Bilbo. "Have you ever left the Shire?"

"Not.. not in a while now," Bilbo admitted. Not since Middle Earth was a video game anyway.

"Hmrmm," Gandalf hummed, eying him sharply. "Well perhaps we can help each other. See I'm looking for someone to take part in adventure..."

 

* * *

 

Bilbo left Dale alone late in the night, with two contracts under his belt and outwardly very little else. Later Bard found a neatly stacked pile of gold bars in the ruined house he'd picked for himself and his children – the pile was high enough to reach the ceiling. By the time Gandalf arrived, Dale had already sent for food and merchants and people to help them rebuild – and all without help from Erebor.

Bilbo walked first and then, once he was far enough, he opened his inventory. He was good 4000 gold bars poorer now but it barely made a dent in his wealth – he'd been one of the best merchants in Middle Earth for a reason. Right now the money didn't matter – what matters was that his items still worked.

He took a flute from his inventory and summoned a mount. Then he rode the rest of the way to his new land on the back of a nice Shire goat, surefooted and steady and very real despite the fact that it had appeared magically from nowhere.

While making his way, Bilbo sorted through his items. He had just about enough seeds, fertiliser and soil to start on half of the land he'd bought – which was well enough. Problem was that trying to farm two thousand acres alone would take more time than he had in hand. Even with summoned ploughs and oxen it would take months, years.

He'd need to use special items – ones with limited use which had cost him more than he'd paid Bard for the land. Well, it wasn't like he could ever use them in Shire anyway – might as well.

Opening a map, if Middle Earth, Bilbo zoomed in on Lonely Mountain. Lands owned by him were already marked green on the map – and there was lot if it, the green forming a thick band all around the Mountain. Bard, the poor man, had let him besiege the mountain. If he wanted to Bilbo now could've built a wall around Erebor and Dale both and imprison everyone inside.

Honestly, he was half tempted to do it, just to keep his Company safe.

But he didn't – instead he started marking the area as fields, meadows, gardens, farm lands, orchards, vineyards and forests. He did it mostly without any system, just trying to space everything out as nicely as he could.

Then, as he reached the edge of lands, he hopped down to examine the soil, inventory windows floating all around him. It was in bad condition – far too much ash – but he could work with it. With some help.

Thinking back to the Misty Mountains with some amusement, Bilbo took four Earthen Flutes from his inventory – and one by one used them to summon his special, one use only, Earth Giants.

They rose from the ashen soil like mountains, one after another, these colossal beings made of earth and soil. They were big in the game too, but it was a whole different thing standing under them as they stood, towering high enough to touch the clouds.

But Bilbo had summoned them – so he commanded them, too. "Turn the earth, make it arable again," he shouted up at them, even as he took all the Sacks of Soil and Potions of Fertile Ground out of his inventory – and added them in the Earth Giants' inventories.

The great beings hesitated, stains still before they slowly turned. In the game summoned creatures spread out automatically to complete widespread tasks faster – and that's what the Earth Giants did too, each heading in different direction.

Bilbo nodded after them, and then begun setting up bird feeders. He had no hired NPCs to mind his farms, so he used another one use only item – the Swarm of Earth. Once he had all the bird feeders set up with all the seeds and seedling roots, he activated the Swarm.

And hundreds of small birds appeared from nowhere, flocking like a dark, thick cloud above him. Their wings and feathers rustling in the air like great storm, they swarmed over the feeders and scattered wildly, chasing after the Earth Giants. They'd automatically drop seeds on freshly tilled soil, which meant they'd be following the Giants around for days probably, planting everything in their wake.

As for the rest...

Bilbo leafed through his inventory until he came upon nuts and acorns. For forests, he needed tree herders. Time to plant some Ents.


	17. Through Cracks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Swallowing back tears, Bilbo knelt down and picked up the pieces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unbetaed

Thorin didn't even notice he did it, he was in such hurry to get to the gold. No one else noticed it either – no, their attention was on the treasure, in the mounds of coins and jewels. Soon they were either kneeling by it or wading into it, Thorin calling, "Find the Arkenstone!" while Balin was muttering about how he'd forgotten how much there was. Glóin was trying to count the gold while Bombur and Bifur were trying to lift a chest full of gold. Even Dwalin and Ori and Dori were star struck and Nori was already stuffing his pockets with the coins.

Bilbo noticed it, though, and while the others threw themselves at the treasure, he knelt by the floor. There, in shatters, was a ceramic bowl. Who knew how it had ended up in the treasure. It was made of only clay, and the designs painted to the now fractured sides were somewhat ugly. He got the impression that a child had made it, or someone unused to making pottery. There was lumpiness to the clay, and wobbliness to the painting and the lacquer was badly made and badly applied.

It had had a golden rim – maybe that was why it was with the treasure. The golden rim, Bilbo noted as he gently picked up the shards, had been made by a firmer hand than the rest of the bowl. A master, putting finishing touches to his student's work? A parent, enhancing the beauty of his child's creation? There was love in it, in how the gold had been applied in way that enhanced the otherwise rather awkward bowl.

And now it was in shatters. Thorin, in his haste, had stepped on it, and broken it.

"Master Baggins!" Thorin turned to him. "Come. You've been here before, you have seen more – come, help us look! We must find the Arkenstone."

Bilbo looked up from the cracked piece of pottery and the King's Jewel felt heavy in his breast pocket. "I'll be right there," Bilbo assured him and then, tender, he picked up all the shards of the broken bowl, making sure he did not lose any. He wasn't sure what he wanted to do with them, what he _could_ do with them… but he didn't want to leave them lying, to be trampled and destroyed further.

Everything was going all wrong, now.

 

* * *

 

The company one and all lost their minds, and Bilbo watched, helpless. He'd tried to persuade them away from the gold, but to no avail – they would not have it, they would not look away. Thorin was mad over the search of the Arkenstone and the rest of the company present were arguing about… about their shares, and how to count them, and how everyone else was trying to swindle them out of their rightful share. They would not see reason.

They did not even feel hunger, it seemed. Bilbo had managed to get a bit of food into them, placing pieces of bread and cheese and ham in their hands and forcing them to eat it, but aside from that they did not care. They felt no dirt either, which considering that Erebor was supplied with fresh water from some deep mountain well was truly a pity. Bilbo had washed twice already, and enjoyed it greatly, but the others didn't care.

The company, what was left of it, was utterly lost in their own lust over the treasures. Bilbo thought back to Elven palace and how derisive the Elvenking had been about dwarves and their gold lust, and he felt sick, sitting by and doing nothing – trying _everything_ and yet doing nothing.

"Have you found the Arkenstone?" Was all Thorin ever asked of him.

"I have not," Bilbo said, lied, and didn't give to him. He didn't Thorin's tentative tether to any ort of reason could bear the additional burden of the Arkenstone – already the gold weighed on his mind so heavily. One more shiny pebble, and he'd break. "Please," Bilbo said instead. "Will you take some water, and eat?"

"I don't have the time!" Thorin snarled. "I must find the Arkenstone."

"You've been looking non-stop for days, with little food and no sleep!" Bilbo snapped back and pushed a jug of water in his hands. "Drink!"

Thorin glared at him, but drank – and then, as Bilbo watched, he let the jug fall from his hands. It was a fine piece, sort of angular like most Dwarven things were, made of fine porcelain painted dark with deep red lines painted to the sides – and it shattered explosively as it fell on the stone floor, water and fragments spilling everywhere.

Thorin didn't even notice as he turned and returned to his search, leaving Bilbo standing in small puddle of water, with porcelain fragments anywhere.

Swallowing back tears, Bilbo knelt down and picked up the pieces.

 

* * *

 

Bard came to demand his duel, with elven army at his back and desperation on his voice. His city had burned, most of his people had burned with it, and he wanted what he needed to survive – like Thorin had promised, like Thorin had _sworn_ he'd give. And Thorin gave none of it.

It wasn't the first time Thorin had gone against his word, Bilbo mused as he watched the supposed King Under the Mountain pace along the gold, restless like caged animal. He'd done before, swearing to do one thing, and then doing the other. Only before… Before it had been a good thing. Thorin had sworn not to ensure Bilbo's safety, to not be responsible of his fate – and then he'd thrown down his arms to save Bilbo from being torn apart, then leant down over a cliff and near certain death, just to pull Bilbo up.

Bilbo felt like Thorin was crumbling, a little, shattering, under the weight of that terrible change – to going from that sort of goodness and kindness, to this. Thorin had been always brusque and quick to accuse and deny and ridicule – but his actions had always been beyond hid words. There'd been kindness and honour always there, just beneath the harsh surface.

Now, it seemed like that hidden part of Thorin, the kind core, was gone, and only the rough edges remained. And Thorin was faltering without it, could not stay upright – he was lost, utterly lost. And he did not know it.

"Do you know," Bilbo said. "It never stops amusing me that you got lost in Hobbiton. There is only one road, and it leads straight up to my smial. How on good green earth did you get lost in Hobbiton?"

Thorin didn't answer, pacing along the gold. "They want the gold, they want riches they haven't the right to," he muttered to himself and turned violently to pace back again. "Don't you see? They're greedy, they know we have it and now they want it, but they haven't the right to it! It's my birthright! Mine!"

Bilbo sighed, leaning his cheek on his knuckles, watching how Thorin's expression fractured. "What distracted you then, I wonder? What did you stop to look, that got you turned about and lost?"

Thorin snarled at him. "Be serious!" he demanded. "We're on the precipice of war over their greed!"

"Are we?" Bilbo wondered, sighing, and infuriated Thorin picked something from the gold – a cup of some kind, and hurtled it at Bilbo's direction. It missed him by half a foot, and shattered against the pillar behind him.

"If you refuse to be of use, then get out of my sight!" the King Under the Mountain – and under it's terrible, maddening weight – ordered. "Begone!"

Bilbo sighed again and stood. The cup Thorin had shattered had been an exquisite piece of art – pale white, painted with flowers that looked like gems. Like all Dwarven cups it had no handle, and the shape was bold and upright, no graceful arches but angles. And the inside of it was lacquered with silver, which explained why it was included in the treasure.

Bilbo picked up the delicate fragments to add into his collection of things Thorin had destroyed, and left, head bowed.

 

* * *

 

He left that night, he and his collection of shattered fragments, and he handed the Arkenstone over to Bard, and swallowed the bitter taste of his own betrayal down, smothering it with desperate hope. Maybe it would be enough, maybe it would barter a peace, maybe it would save the lives of his Company – maybe it would make Thorin see _reason_ …

Bilbo didn't think it would, but he didn't have the heart to watch Thorin break more things, and this was all he could think to fix it. An awkward patch up with a treasure, to mend the broken peace. What else could he do?

It didn't bring about peace. Far from it.

 

* * *

 

Later, Bilbo sat alone and far from everyone else, deaf to the sounds of death and misery. His whole body ached but not with pain – rather, than with grief and sadness so terribly great that it was like pain. Elsewhere, Thorin lay on his death bed, with Fíli and Kíli at his side. Elsewhere, healers were doing all they could to save him, and they were failing.

And all he could think were all the things Thorin had broken and how he now would never have the chance to see them mended – friendships and alliances and reputation and respect. Thorin would go to grave not as the great and honourable Thorin Oakenshield, but rather as the terribly greedy and cruel False King Under the Mountain, uncrowned by anyone other than himself. And it was a thought Bilbo could not bear – the loss of all the things that could be remade greater and brighter than they had had the chance to be hurt.

There'd been a chance for something beautiful here. Bilbo had seen it, in Thorin's determination and in the Company's hopes. They could've build a home here, broken but made anew. It could have been great.

"Bilbo," a weary voice said and Gandalf sat beside him. "There you are. How are you, my boy?"

Bilbo swallowed thickly around the ache in his throat, staring listlessly ahead and _hurting_. He tried to speak, but only a wounded noise came out.

"Ah," Gandalf said with a heavy sigh and then looked down. "What have you there?"

Bilbo looked down. He was holding the shards of the first cup Thorin had broken, the awkward bowl with it's lining of gold. He'd examined it before, and thought it crude and awkward, made by a child. And then he'd found a signature, painted on the bottom.

He'd been around dwarves long enough to know the runes Thorin signed his name with. The signature on the bowl was nothing like the elegant, bold tunes of Thorin's name these days, but… it was still recognisable

Gandalf considered the pottery and then at Bilbo, stroking one wrinkled hand over his grey, slightly bloodstained beard. "Now why are you carrying pottery shards, Bilbo?" he asked. "You can't fix what been so badly shattered."

That brought Bilbo up for a halt and he turned his eyes to Gandalf and it felt a little like betrayal, to hear him say it so frankly, so obviously, like it was a _fact_ , unsurpassable and insurmountable. "Can I not?" he asked and then frowned, his voice hardening. "Can I not?"

Gandalf blinked at him as he stood, but before he'd said anything, Bilbo had already stalked away, to find Bard, to find a Dwarf.

They all thought he was mad when he made his demands.

 

* * *

 

Bilbo returned to Erebor alone, half mad with frustration and grief and _refusal to give in_. He couldn't do much but he could do this, no, he would do this and damn everything and everyone else, because this, _this_ he could do.

He found the rest of what he needed after upending couple of treasure chests in the Erebor's hoard, and then, using a dish made of pure gold and a knife made of solid silver, he sat on the broken throne of Thrór, and got to work. Water from his own little water skin, flour and glue from Lake Town, and resin collected from the dead trees of Dale – with them he had all he needed.

The bowl was first. Bilbo took all of it's shards and checked that he had every one of them, before getting to work. His mixture of adhesive was awkward – in Shire where they had just the right trees for it, they had much better resin – but it would do for now. Bilbo mixed everything and lathered it carefully and determinately along the shards, gentle and firm, and then slowly, pieced the broken bowl together, piece by piece, until the thing was whole again. Fractured and cracked, but recognisably a bowl again.

Then he did the same to the shards of the water jug, lining the broken pieces with his resin and gluing it together, piece by piece. It was slow and tedious work with the jug, it being bigger and harder to handle, but he kept at it resolutely, even when his fingers got resin stained, even when he cut his palm on a porcelain shard, he kept at it until the thing was whole.

Finally, the cup Thorin had thrown at him, and missed, and broken it against a pillar. It was the quickest to fix, but Bilbo took his time to make sure he got it just right, not wanting to do a bad job at his haste.

And then they were all whole and mended – not yet hardened, the resin would taker some time to set, but they'd be whole again. They'd even be usable, in time.

Once it was all done, Bilbo sat on Thrór's throne, surrounded by Erebor's treasure, and he felt a little silly about the whole thing – and yet, better too. Thorin and Fíli and Kíli might be dead now, they probably were. But for now… he'd fixed something Thorin had broken. It was something insignificant maybe, it probably wouldn't make a difference in the long run, but he'd fixed _some_ of the hurt Thorin had caused.

Taking a deep breath, Bilbo took the last item he'd found from Erebor's hoard. A small, clear crystal phial – filled with gold dust. It had probably been made for the artists in Erebor – Bilbo had seen others like it earlier, when he'd wandered around the hoard in his fake search for the Arkenstone he'd already possessed. He wasn't sure what the artisans of Erebor did it with it. It probably wasn't meant for what he was about to do.

With shaking hands he opened the crystal phial and then pulled the remaining resin close and then, very, very carefully… he mixed some of the gold in the resin. He had to add a bit more water to make it properly runny and he had a feeling that it wouldn't hold as well as he would like, but… it was best he had. It would have to do.

Taking a deep breath, Bilbo gripped the awkward horse-hair brush he'd made quickly in Dale, and went about finishing his work.

 

* * *

 

The three pieces of Ceramics sat on the small table beside Thorin's bed.

A bowl roughly hewn from rough clay, a child's first piece of art. Thorin had made it when he'd been very young with his mother, before her death – she'd been a great artist of Erebor and had made a great many pieces of beautiful ceramics and porcelain. Thorin had never had any sort of knack for it, but he'd loved her and wanted to be much like her, and had begged her to show him and teach him. The result had been awkward and in his opinion awful, but she'd been very proud – she'd outlined it with gold and called it her treasure.

A dark water jug with red lines. There had been many like it in the palace – indeed, it had been a standard style of water jug in Erebor, and Thorin and Balin and Dwalin could remember seeing many, many like it, oft in their own tables. They might've once even drank from that very same jug, even before Bilbo had found it, and used it to keep them alive in Erebor.

And a cup, pale with silver inline and flowers like jewels painted on the side – part of the set the Royal Family had dined on, possibly the last remaining piece of it. Thrór had collected them all to his hoard one by one due to the silver inclining, guarding them as jealously as he did over all things that had any precious metal on hem. It had miraculously survived all of Smaug shifts and turns, and yet been broken in Thorin's hand.

Now they were all fixed again, with lines of gold running where the mends had been made, like raw seams in the mountain side. Thorin could not stop staring at them.

"Why would you ever fix mere pottery with gold?" he asked, turning to Bilbo. "Why would you even bother fixing them at all? They were… they were broken. Worthless."

"A thing isn't worthless just because it's broken," Bilbo said with shrug and eyed the pottery too. The gold was little ostentatious to him – in Shire they fixed their broken plates and cups in similar ways and painted the seams with bright greens and yellows to show where they'd broken and how well they'd been fixed.

Using gold to fix something, though... it suited Erebor. It suited Thorin. Bilbo smiled and glanced at the dwarf who, like the pottery, like the mountain and like the city of Dale, was finally on mend. Thorin was staring at him with puzzled look, and Bilbo smiled wider.

"Sometimes things are all the more beautiful because they're broken."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kintsugi is awesome and I wanted to write something inspired by how awesome it is. Probably didn’t do any sort of justice to it, but yeah.
> 
> (Idea was that by fixing the things Thorin broke, Bilbo kind of ended up healing him, but that didn't ever actually come across in the story so...)


	18. Lord of Wind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Eagles can sense the One Ring

The shakes took Bilbo not more than five minutes after he'd realised they were now out of harms away. Borne away on the wings of great eagles – the likes of which were only mentioned in the oldest books of Shire and even then only as fairytale. Eagles of Manwë. To think this quest would have him see them in person.

The awe of the eagles wasn't enough to prevent the shakes however. He'd noticed them before, how they just besieged him the moment a danger passed. When they met the trolls and when the trolls turned to stone, for a while he'd just stood there in blank minded relief and he'd been shaking with what then he'd thought was exhaustion. When they escaped the wargriders, when they found safety in Rivendell – he'd been shaking so hard that his teeth had been clattering together and he'd hardly been able to speak. In the goblin town, in Gollum's Lair, the shakes had been coming on and off.

The tension of danger and attention spend in trying to survive was bleeding away and leaving him weak and exhausted and shuddering. It took all his effort to keep a grip on the eagle's feathers – something he doubted the great lord of air cared for. Yet it looked like the way was long yet, no end to the flight in sight as far as he could see – it would not do to fall now.

His eyes were blurring and in desperate attempt to strive off what might be a fit of fainting or exhausted slumber, Bilbo begun to babble.

"That was – that was –" he begun, trying to put it into order. "Yes, that was perhaps the worst danger I've been yet! Never mind the trolls, slow and easily outwitted they were. Or even the wargriders west of Rivendell – that was utterly horrifying to be sure, but there was always some way to run to! Even in the caves of the goblins or the Lair of that Gollum creature I wasn't so cornered."

The eagle didn't as much bat a wing at that and Bilbo swallowed dryly. The wind was whipping his hair in every direction. "What a sorry adventure this has been," he groaned, pressing down against the eagle's back in hopes of escaping some of the cutting wind. "I never should've left home – this isn't the sort of thing hobbits do. Trolls and orcs and goblins and all sorts of dangers – no, I'd rather be home, where it's safe, and warm, and comfortable. And all this, for what?"

All this, for Erebor. Well, he could understand that much – home for those that had none, yes, he could understand it, could sympathise with it, and would do everything in his power to help his dwarven companions attain it. But still, what had he gained from this, except for lost possessions strewn all across the lands.

"Goblins and orcs and wargs," he muttered, thinking of Azog, of the great white Warg, of all of it. "What a big and terrifying world this is, with all of its orcs and wargs. I wonder if these orcs were the ones to chase us around the forests of Trollshaws? Will they still make chase? Balin made it sound that this orc Azog has an especial grudge for Thorin. Perhaps they will. If we have to survive another horrible battle like that, though, I do not know how I will handle it. Hobbits aren't made for war."

The eagle beat its wings slowly and Bilbo was quite sure now that it probably did not even understand him. The stories speaking of eagles all told that they spoke, and quite eloquently too. But then, they were fairytales. He wondered for a moment how Gandalf had summoned them, or had he conjured them somehow by magic? Gandalf hadn't done much magic as far as he'd been able to see it.

He'd seen some magic though. Magic that might've actually helped him on that tree, had he thought to use it – though perhaps not. Sitting in a tree as it was burning was not a safe thing whether you were visible or not.

"Magic rings – who'd ever heard of such things? And to find one so suddenly. A handy thing though it might be, it is small in comparison to hearth and home," Bilbo sighed and on its own his hand went to his pocket, where the little ring was. "Curious thing it was, too. Of all the magics I've heard of, which is not really all that much, I've never heard of one that can turn one invisible! Why, I doubt even Gandalf can do that – though, what do I know of such things…"

He brought the ring out and looked at it. It was the first chance he had had to examine it properly – there just had not been time before. It looked so simple. So unremarkable. He'd seen fancier rings in the fingers of his dwarven companions, even in the hands of some of his wealthier Baggins and Took relatives. Just a simple band of gold this thing was, hardly noticeable.

"Who'd ever heard of such a thing," he muttered to himself, turning the ring in his hand. He grasped his hand around it when the wind suddenly changed, to keep it from falling. Confused he looked up, to see that the eagle was rising higher now, above the others. Perhaps it was catching some wind current.

Bilbo ignored it and went back to examine the ring, turning the ring in his hand. "Precious, Gollum called it. I wonder how long he's had it," he mused. "How does a creature so deep in the misty mountains come upon a magic ring anyway? He did not look wealthy, he didn't even look _healthy_. I wonder if he stole it from goblins – do goblins have magic rings?"

The ring glinted in the sunlight as Bilbo turned it around and around. "Perhaps I will ask Gandalf about it," he murmured – and immediately knew he wouldn't. It wasn't really necessary, was it, to let people know about the ring? It was such a small thing, so insignificant – and advantage was only that when no one knew about it. And who really cared about such things – it was just a ring! Gandalf had more important things to think about.

"No, I will keep it to myself," he said determinately. "No need to bother Gandalf with it, is there? It's not important at all, is it?"

Was it?

Shaking his head Bilbo pushed the ring back into his pocket, making sure to wiggle the button shut too, for extra security – it wouldn't do to lose it. Bleary, he looked up and around, trying to spot the other eagles. They were below, and it looked quite like they were going to land on a shelf of rock standing high on the mountain side. Thorin and Gandalf were already down there, as was a great eagle with which Gandalf was talking.

Bilbo waited, but the eagle carrying him wasn't making to land, not like the others who were one by one dropping their burdens to the shelf. Fíli and Kíli rushed to see to their wounded uncle, and then Óin who was let to Thorin's side immediately. Balin, Dwalin, Bofur, Bifur, Bombur were all let down, as was Dori and Nori and young Ori and then Glóin too was down and everyone had landed.

Except Bilbo, whose eagle was now circling around the carrock below, making no move to swoop down.

Bilbo blinked and gathered a breath to complain, to order the eagle to let him down – to something – when the eagle suddenly let out a series of sharp cries, aiming its head downward. The great eagle Gandalf was talking to looked up sharply, and cried back, a shrill sound that echoed across the mountains – to which Bilbo's eagle answered. Split of a second later, all the eagles were aloft again, and surrounding the eagle carrying Bilbo.

"H-hey – I'm still here, you know!" Bilbo yelped in horror as the Eagles made to fly _away_ from the carrock. "I know a hobbit must not weigh much, perhaps you don't even notice me on your back – but I'm still here – you can't just – hey!"

The eagle did not care – it carried him to a further peak, more than a mile away from the shelf where the rest of the company had been dropped off. It was very high – too high for Bilbo to ever make the attempt the climb down on his own. There the eagle landed and then bowed so suddenly, that Bilbo went tumbling head over hells, right over the eagle's head.

He stumbled to a halt in front of the largest of the eagles, who had landed right in front of him.

"Gwaihir tells me you carry something," the large eagle said, peering down at Bilbo as if he was a small field mouse and he was considering if he made big enough meal. "Something… precious."

Bilbo froze on his hands and knees, glancing at the eagle that had carried him and then the larger eagle. So the eagle had heard him – and understood. "I, uh," Bilbo blinked and shifted back so that he was sitting on his knees. "I-it is just a ring, a small thing," he said. "I… don't think it would even fit – I mean, eagle talons…" he trailed away as more eagles came to land and quite suddenly he was entirely surrounded by them, these colossal feathered figures with their talons like knives and beaks gleaming and sharp.

"Bring it out," the largest eagle – their leader quite probably – ordered. "Bring out the Ring."

As much as something in him fought it, Bilbo complied – too nervous not to, surrounded by such powerful, dangerous figures. Friends of Gandalf or not, they did not look particularly friendly as they stared at him. "I-if I give it to you, will you take me to others?" Bilbo asked feebly, holding the ring up in his palm.

The eagles did not answer – they backed up one and all, almost recoiling away form the little golden ring sitting on Bilbo's hand.

"It is the One," the great eagle in lead said. "I know it – I have seen it before, in hands of its master and the fool that won it."

"And I've sought for it, when it was lost," the eagle that carried Bilbo said, it's glare pouring down at Bilbo's neck like something hot and cutting. "When Isildur was beset on the road and none could find it again."

"Many did," the great eagle – perhaps even Lord of Eagles – said. "Put it away, again."

Bilbo blinked and then realised he meant him. More confused than anything, he pushed the ring back into his pocket. "Uh," he said. "Who's Isildur?"

 "He was a great – and foolish – king of Men," the Lord of Eagles said. "Who won that ring right from the hand of the Dark Lord who made it, and then lost at the moment of his death. Almost three thousand years the ring has been lost and thought to be gone forever. But we remember it well – too well."

Bilbo frowned. Dark Lord? _Three thousand_ years? "It's… just a little ring?" he said in confusion, looking at the Lord of Eagles and the one behind him – Gwaihir.

"It is a special ring. A dangerous, powerful ring," Gwaihir said, staring at him. "When Isildur was lost, and the Ring gone also, the Wizards called me and my kin to try and find it – for our eyes are keener than those of Men or even Elves. The search was long and desperate. All over the Gladden Fields we flew for many a year – and in the end, number of us settled here, established an eyrie in these mountains. We've been looking for it, ever since."

Bilbo blinked and shook his head at that. "I don't… understand," he admitted.

"Surely you've heard of the Last Alliance of the Second Age of the Sun," the Lord of Eagles said sharply. "The Battle of Dargoland and the siege of Barad-dûr!"

"Uh. Yes, I've heard of those," Bilbo said, inching backwards a bit in fright.

"Isildur claiming the ring from the hand of the Dark Lord Sauron is what ended that war," Gwaihir said, leaning down a bit – and he probably thought it a comforting gesture, but to have that beak so close suddenly was utterly terrifying. "That very ring, Hobbit, ended the war."

"Oh," Bilbo said. "H-how are you sure?"

"We are quite sure. There never was such a perfect, unbroken circle," the Lord of Eagles said with slight shifting of his winds that might've been a shrug or some eagle gesture of annoyance.

"So, it is very important, historically?" Bilbo wondered, now quite seeing how it mattered _now_. The Last Alliance was very long ago – in a whole another age! Shire hadn't been even settled yet, Hobbit lore did not even go that far back.

The eagles were quiet for a moment, just staring at him. Then the Lord of Eagles looked up at Gwaihir. "Mithrandir told me of many things," he said. "Of the movement of orcs, amassing of power – and growing darkness. A Morgul blade has been found, the one the Witch King of Angmar was buried with. There is talk of a Necromancer, in the old fortress of Dol Guldur."

"The Goblins under the mountains are growing in strength and numbers also," Gwaihir mused.

"Mithrandir asked me to have our kin carry his company over the forests of Rhovannion and to the lonely peak in the far off plains," the Lord of Eagles said, thoughtful and maybe somewhat agitated. "The flight would take us over the mountains of the Greenwood, and goblins are settled there also. I refused on those grounds – the quest of dwarves is not ours. Now I wonder…"

He looked at Bilbo again. "Did you find the Ring – or did the Ring decide it was the time to be found."

"It's a ring – it doesn't have a will of its own," Bilbo objected in confusion.

The eagle ignored him. "Necromancer and blade of the witch king is one thing, a dark thing, but combined with this unearthing of the Ring, it can only mean one thing. And knowing that, there is a decision to be made," he said and looked at Gwaihir. "But perhaps it is a decision already made."

"I swore, my lord," Gwaihir answered. "Long ago, when I first looked for it. And I keep my oaths."

"Yes," the Lord of Eagles said thoughtfully. "Yes, you do. But you know as well as I do, the dangers of that quest."

Gwaihir said nothing for a moment, looking at his lord. Then he looked down at Bilbo, as did all the other eagles – and Bilbo felt again like a small rodent, about to be devoured.

"I will go and speak with Mithrandir – I want to know more about this darkness he speaks of," the Lord of Eagles said suddenly and without another word he took to wing – as did every other eagle. They were so fast that it happened in couple beats of Bilbo's heart and then suddenly, he was alone with Gwaihir.

"Um," Bilbo said, turning to the eagle that had carried him.

"They call me Gwaihir – the Windlord," the eagle said, looking at him with the sort of steadiness only bird of prey could attain. "What is your name, Hobbit?"

"Ah, it's Bilbo. Bilbo Baggins, at your service my lord," Bilbo said quickly, standing up and bowing slightly.

The eagle bowed back and then looked away, to where his kin had flown off – to the direction of the rocky shelf where they'd dropped the rest of the company. "Your quest is for the Lonely Mountain?" the eagle asked.

"Yes," Bilbo nodded uneasily. "The dwarves want to claim back their homeland. I was, uh… contracted to help them. They needed someone with, um… light feet, I guess. To sneak past the dragon, or some such. Hobbits are very light on their feet."

The eagle nodded. "We don't care for that kingdom for it is far away and its matters do not concern our eyries," he said, shifting his wings and looking back to Bilbo. "We are old and the kingdoms of men and dwarves, as long as they may last, come and go. Erebor was young when it was lost and it is young still, and it matters not to us whether it is reclaimed or not."

Bilbo swallowed and nodded at that – it made sense, eagles living high on mountain tops probably didn't care for wars of the ground-bound people,

"But there are things that matter," Gwaihir continued, staring somehow even harder at Bilbo now. "War matters even to us. Wars such as the Last Alliance matter. And darkness too. The sort of darkness that ring you carry might be – that _matters_."

"I… still don't understand how it can be so important?" Bilbo said a little uneasily. "How can claiming of it end a war – and why does it have your people so nervous now."

"Because it can return evil back to power," Gwaihir said and sighed. "The ringlore of old was a powerful art. With it was fashioned many a great ring, all of them with great powers. There were Nine, and Seven and Three special rings – and then there was One, made in secret, with the power to command the rest of them. The wielders of the Nine were lost and bound to the service of the One, the Seven corrupted their bearers with greed and so the Great Dwarven Hoards begun – the Three remained unsullied, but even their carriers are in danger of manipulation of the One."

Bilbo blinked and sat back down again. "And the ring I have is the… One?"

"The One Ring of Power," Gwaihir nodded. "Forged by the Dark Lord Sauron. He bound it to himself as much as he bound the other rings to its command – so that only he could even wield it. In so doing, he bound himself to _it_. When Isildur cut it from his hand, the Dark Lord's power was undone and he fell into his own shadows and was lost. Should it be returned to him… he can regain his strength."

"Oh," Bilbo said and looked down at his knees. "I… I see."

He didn't really – it was too much to comprehend so suddenly.

"Trolls and goblins and orcs and wargs – all those things you spoke of and more fall under the Dark Lord's command. Right now, in his absence, they run rampant and free of command," Gwaihir said. "But should he return, they will fall into order – and will no doubt form into a terrible army. His purpose was only ever to control all of Middle Earth, and he would return to that purpose, if he got the chance."

Bilbo swallowed. "S-so I should give the ring to you?" he asked. "So that I don't lose it and it won't return to him?"

Gwaihir said nothing for a moment, just looking at him. "Long ago, when the Wizards asked my kin to look for the lost One Ring, I swore an oath," he said. "Should I be the one to find it, I would not return it to the hands of men where it became their folly, nor would I give it to elves, nor even to wizards. I would _destroy_ it."


	19. 100 themes AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A 100 themes thing I tried to do once featuring a Bilbo disfigured by the Fell Winter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also features some discrimination and ableism

  1. East



 

The wind blew easterly that night. Bilbo remembered that for the rest of his life as clearly as he remembered the cutting cold that snuck between his toes and froze the hair on his feet – the way he remembered the gnawing hunger and the constant fear, ever present that winter. The wind blew easterly – a hope, a promise. Maybe, maybe, _maybe_ it would turn southerly.

But it was already too late then. The last dregs of stores in Hobiton had been scoured dry – everyone was starving. The snow had piled higher and higher, the roads were utterly blocked – even the rangers had stopped coming. What little was left was shared around in the miserable group of hobbits making a mad bid west and to the great smials of Tuckborough – the last hope they had to stave off the death of starvation, to beg from others.

The wind was blowing easterly, a false hope of spring that wouldn't come for another month yet, and it was as bitterly cold as the north wind that had plagued them all winter long.

 

  1. City



 

Though Bilbo had been told that he'd seen Tuckborough when he'd been young – Grandfather Gerontius' birthday, his mother said, everyone had attended it, even him – Bilbo couldn't remember it. He was twenty one, just old enough to be called a tween at long last – old enough to have forgotten the earlier adventures of his life. Including what had apparently been the greatest party The Shire had seen in centuries.

But he held onto that thought – Tuckborough was painted large and grand and impressive in his mind, but it was shaded with familiarity. It was home away from home, whether he knew it or not – it was the childhood home of his mother. They'd get help there. There'd be food and warmth and comfort aplenty.  Tuckborough was a big, rich town by any standards – they would have plenty to spare.

Who knew, maybe there would even be snacks.

 

  1. Park



 

The thing was, where they stopped for the night was supposed to be _safe_. Bilbo could remember, clear as day, the summer nights spend on that park, chasing fire flies and making flower crowns. He could almost smell it, the daffodils Rosalyn had braided into his hair, giggling softly as she did. There was no safer place, he'd thought then, that the well cared for park with its sheltering trees and endlessly twinkling fireflies.

It looked much different in the dead dark of a winter night, no star to be seen past the heavy clouds. Instead of fireflies there was flurry of snow and instead of that gentle summer breeze there was wind as cutting as the icicles that hung on those preciously sheltering trees. It was cold and dark and fearful – and yet, it was supposed to be safe.

"It is off the beaten path – off the main roads," his father assured him and the others in their group. "We're quite safe here."

 

  1. Courage



 

They had no warning. The wolves came in the dead of night, silent in the snow – cunning and ruthless they took out the night watch first, and the first horror Bilbo saw that night was the sight of Benny Bolger's throat, torn open and bloody.

It was not the last.

There was a red haze in those memories, and darkness in the edges and flickering between moments – there was scarcely any light, everything was dark. To see mere flashes of furry bodies, powerful and lethally swift in the darkness was far worse, he thought, than if could've seen all of them. Grey here, brown there - snap of white, white teeth and a scream – and then poor little Illa was being dragged away.

Eight died that night – three of them children. More would've died besides if Bilbo's mother hadn't been there – most everyone agreed on that. Her grabbing a branch, wrapping it in oiled cloth and using last, broken dregs of the fire to set it aflame to ward of the wolves saved many lives.

Bilbo's own was one of them.

 

  1. Father



 

But despite Belladonna Baggins' actions that night, Bilbo remembered his father's the best. Not because he was heroic, or because he saved lives – but because it was he who came to Bilbo's side first, when he fell. While Belladonna chased the blood mouthed wolf away, it was Bungo who took Bilbo's hands from his bloodied face and hushed him through the screams of agony.

"Show me, show me, Bilbo, there's a good lad," he said and then pressed snow on the wound and Bilbo could feel it – could feel it where he shouldn't feel it. It burned and cut and he screamed, his vision going white with pain. And his father was there, arm around his shoulders, other pushing more and more snow against the wound. "We must stem the flow – shh, Bilbo, my boy, you will be alright."

He was the one who, the moment daylight peaked past the heavy clouds, took a needle and thread and sewed Bilbo's lip back to it's original size – if not it's original shape.

 

  1. Cold



 

The cold persisted even in Tuckborough. Everyone saved on firewood and so the fires were always kept low. The food they'd all hoped to be plentiful was only barely enough to go around. No one, not even loved relatives, were happy to see the refugees from Hobiton there – no one was happy to share their dwindling stores with yet more mouths to feed.

And they were even less happy to share what little medicine they had, when Bilbo's wounds got infected, when he fell into fever so high that it made him vomit out the precious wood, and soil his beddings more than once. Doing laundry was a luxury even the great smials of Tuckborough could indulge only rarely, that winter.

Bilbo missed most of it – his mind was strewn all across the four winds and he could not hold onto reality. But he saw it later – in the looks people gave him. Or more specifically in the ones they did not quite give.

And no one could look at Bilbo in the face anymore – bar his parents who did so with smiles twisted in pain.

"They think it was all wasted on me," Bilbo murmured. "I'm… damaged and will be forever, and the medicine and food I wasted wasn't worth it."

"They're fools, one and all of them. Whatever happened and whatever you look like doesn't mean anything. You still have your sharp mind and your clever hands and two strong feet to stand on!" his mother said back, and yet it couldn't quite ease the pain of dropped gazes and shudders of revulsion.

  1.   
Mother



 

It was her that eventually got enough of it – of the looks and murmured whispers and off handed pity that came out more insulting than comforting. They were in her father's smial and so had to behave –and yet as the days wore on, longer and longer, her patience with the mutters grew shorter and shorter.

"Come lad," she said the moment the doctor pronounced Bilbo's face healed enough. "Come outside with me."

The fear took hold of Bilbo only for a moment, and then her hand was at his shoulder, guiding him away – not to the dark forests or the dangerous roads, but to the back garden of the great Tookhall, where apple trees stood, leafless, and berry bushes were mere mounds beneath snow.

Together, they made their way to the little work shed in the corner of the garden, and together they spend the light of the day doing nothing but chopping firewood. It was a menial, exhausting task – but one Bilbo was intensely grateful for. Neither the firewood nor the axe whispered, neither of them stared – neither of them judged.

And by the end of it he was too exhausted and tired to care about the way Violet dropped her eyes and went pale when he walked past her.

 

  1. Grow



 

Bilbo looked once into a mirror after the accident, and then never again. It was harder in Tookhall than it would've been in Bag End – in Bag End they had only two mirrors in the bathrooms, but in Tookhall there were at lest seven, one of them a gorgeous, brass framed full body mirror near the front entrance. He probably would've admired the frame, if it had been for a painting instead.

The thing on his cheek would be there for the rest of his life, though. He knew that. Avoiding mirrors wouldn't magically make it _not there_. And his mother and father were both adamant about how he had _nothing_ to hide, nothing to be ashamed of – that none of it was his fault.

That wouldn't make the thing go away either, would it? Nor would his pride or shame or lack there of change the way others flinched away like he'd somehow been infected by the Fell Winter and it's foul beasts – like he was in some less way one of them now.

When his father pointed out that he was in terrible need of a haircut, for the first time in his life Bilbo said no.

 

  1. Wrong



 

No one would listen to him. No one aside from his parents anyway. It was subtle and at first Bilbo could convince himself that he was just imagining it – that because he'd been somewhat quiet of late, people simply had gotten used to him not voicing his opinions. But when one brushed aside comment turns into dozen, when most things he say are followed by short, awkward break in conversation and then it's continuation without more than barest of acknowledgement that he had said anything at all…

His words, it seems, were worthless. He'd become something uncomfortable not just to look at, but to include. His company was endured because of his mother and father were still well liked – Belladonna now joined the bounders on their rounds, she did good work, and his father with his bare medical training was of great use in the Tookhall when there was always someone sick… But Bilbo was not included.

"It's like I'm furniture, just sitting there," Bilbo said, staring at group of tween his age – most of them his cousins – who were chatting merrily amongst themselves. "It's fine so as long as I don't say something – they can ignore me. But when I speak…"

It was hard to understand and harder to accept. Not only had the wound robbed him of his looks but, it seemed, it had robbed him of all of his worth in the eyes of his peers. He was ugly now, so he must also be stupid and whatever he would say was nonsense that ought be immediately ignored.

"Oh, lad," his father said, and could offer little comfort.

 

  1. Cigarette



 

Bilbo smoked his first pipe that winter – washing the taste down with his first cup of ale. Though logic would state that it would be his wilder mother that gave him the taste of these adult luxuries, it was his father. They sat together on top of the Tookhall smial in the early evening, in a sheltered little alcove set aside for the managing of the Thain's messenger pigeons.

"Sad fact is, we hobbits can be quite shallow," Bungo said with a sigh of smoke as they stared up at the sky. "We live nice and cosy lives – injuries such as yours are very rare. None of the other tweens have seen the like, I don't think."

Bilbo stared at his cup of ale and said nothing

"They're young and quite immature," his father continued. "They'll learn soon that looks don't matter much in the grand scheme of things. I can't say when they'll get better – some of them might only get worse. But eventually they will grow up and move beyond the prejudices of _looks_."

Bilbo frowned at that and looked up. "But it's not just them," he said. "It's the adults too. They're just not… that obvious about it. Since I don't talk with them much."

Bungo was quiet a moment before he closed his eyes, sighed, and looked down. "I suppose so," he admitted and smiled at Bilbo. "I can't promise you easy solution. There won't be one. All I can tell you that no matter what they think, you are still beautiful and brilliant and that no matter how you look or how you hurt, it will not change who you are, Bilbo. I hope you remember that."

 

  1. Chores.



 

All the tweens and even the faunts in Tookhall had their chores to do. There might not be much food to eat and the fires had to stay low, but there was always something to occupy otherwise idle hands. If nothing else, someone might decide to suddenly rearrange the great library, or air the linens or just sweep the otherwise spotless smial for no other reason than because there was a tween hanging around, looking suspiciously at leisure.

Bilbo was except from this at first because of his injury, but once it healed he too was given tasks to do. And there too he saw the odd exclusion – while his cousin, younger by two years, was sat down to do sums about food and firewood and all the people that needed to be provided for, Bilbo was set to polish the silverware. While another tween was tasked with taking stock of food or some other necessity, Bilbo tasked with the counting all the brass in the smial. His cousin Lotho was even tasked with the reshuffling of beds to make more room for couple new arrivals – while Bilbo was made to count the cups and plates as if the cook did not know exactly how many of them there were.

He bore it at first because the tasks were easy enough and really, he got off easier than all the other tweens. But it began to grate, this odd… disparity in the assignment of chores. Most of the tasks he was put to do weren't just menial – they were _meaningless._ One could even call them brainless.

Pointless tasks made up to keep the simple minded busy.

"You can't say they're just going easy on me," Bilbo said to his father in odd sort of exhaustion that was more spiritual than physical or even mental. "This is not easy. This is on bar of humouring a _toddler_."

Bungo sighed. "Well," he said and couldn't deny it. "We'll talk about it once your mother is back from her rounds, alright?"

 

  1. Morning



 

The very next day, Belladonna handed some new clothing to Bilbo – including a thick new winter cloak, leather socks to stave off the cold, mittens and a hat. A _bounder's_ hat, at that.

"Well, come on then," she said and handed over her bow to him. "Let's get going."

The brisk morning air, still unpleasantly cold with the promise of more frost and darkness still, was the sweetest Bilbo had tasted. Walking in the leather socks was strange and somewhat unpleasant – he kept trying to shake them off without realising. But it was worth it just for the freedom – and it hardly even mattered that the thought of going into forest made his insides twist as if a clawed hand had grabbed a hold of them.

He'd do that had more, just to get out of the Tookhall.

"It's just for show, what we do here. Tookhall is safe – we're too deep inland and too far from Brandywine for the wolves to come," Belladonna said as they walked. "But it beats indoors."

Bilbo nodded, thinking that he might never return indoors again if he could avoid it. "We're you ever actually trained as a bounder, Ma?" he asked curiously.

"Good grief, no. But I did do a bit of adventuring in my time," she smiled. "I learned how to shoot a bow, even a swing an axe or a sword if need be. In time of need, that's more than enough – and we're in desperate need for bounders right now."

Bilbo nodded, thinking, _thinking_. He didn't know much about bounders, really. There were four in Hobiton, and he'd only ever seen one of them – old Cotton, who walked about during the day in his bounder's hat, carrying a lantern even when it was brightly lit. The other three, he heard, slept during the day – and worked during the night. And so, no one ever much saw them, except perhaps in the very early morning when they finished their rounds.

To Bilbo, that sounded quite appealing sort of lifestyle right about then.

 

  1. Tears



 

There were many tears shed that winter. Many hobbits died, if not in the teeth of wolves or blades of goblins, then to the cold and the starvation. Bilbo lost four relatives on his mother side and no less than nine from his father's – most of them distant, third and fourth cousins and great aunts and uncles he couldn't remember ever meeting. But loss was a loss.

Come spring, there was a month of nothing but funerals – the very first thing they did when they returned to Hobiton, was to attend to one and the very next day there was another. Some of them were almost symbolic in nature – as sometimes there were no bodies to be buried. It didn't make it easier.

It was a difficult spring too. As the snows melted Brandywine flooded terribly and washed away houses and flooded smials and fields. All capable hands were called to build up floor barriers to protect those few fields that could be saved – Bilbo spend what seemed like endless night with his parents, carrying sacks of sand to the edges of farmer Maggot's field, in faint hope that they may save the fields.

It would be a lean summer too – people were still starving. There would be many more funerals to be held, that year.

 

  1. Middle Earth



 

There was a map in the wall of Bilbo's father's study – a great big thing that showed lands so distant that they didn't even have stories about them. Lands like Gondor and Rhovanion and Rhûn and others that meant very little to Bilbo were marked with large bold letters on it, their distant cities small dots on the map. None of it had ever meant much to Bilbo, those distant lands no hobbit had ever seen, surely.

Not until that winter.

Now he looked at that map, at the land of Eriador. There stood the Shire. The whole of Shire had always seemed so large, so impressive – so awe striking the stories of his mother as she explained how she'd travelled it from end to end when she'd been younger. Such a long way from Hobiton to Tuchborough and farther still the way from there to Buckland. The very idea of going beyond that – like his mother had – seemed utterly unbelievable.

Now he looked at the boarders of shire marked on that map and he though – how small. How frightfully small it was. Not quite hundred leagues from north to south – not even fifty, from east to west. Compared to the hundreds and hundreds of leagues of Eriador, and more yet of the rest of the marked world…

"It is lot of boarder to traverse, you know," his father said. "All the way from Lake Evendim to the southern marches and back again. It's a long way."

No, Bilbo thought, it really wasn't.

 

  1. Shirriff



 

"You could just as easily be one of them," his mother offered, nodding to the direction of the proud Shirriff of Hobbiton. "Hobson's getting old, you know – there need be a replacement soon. If you really want to defend the Shire, admirable goal if there ever was one, then surely Shirriff is just as good a choice."

Bilbo said nothing, just shook his head. Shirriff was a position of trust and honour as much as it was that of watch and guardianship and protection. Who would have an ugly, ruined hobbit for Shirriff – who would trust _him_ with law enforcement? No one.

"My heart's set for the bounders," Bilbo said and maybe he was a bit ashamed because the _protection of the Shire_ hadn't really featured in his decision. No, it was just a selfish, self-defensive choice. It was as good as it would get for him, he thought, to live the lonely, quiet life of a night watchman and do his rounds in the lantern light…

… And sleep away the days and thus avoid the censure of others.

She looked at him and smiled, a sad pained thing that did not fit her face. "Alright then." She said. "Alright."

 

  1. Eagle



 

How his parents managed it, but Bilbo scored apprenticeship under Tom Proudfoot, who boasted not only the three feathers of a senior bounder, but also had steel buttons on his vest and no less than two silver lutes on his label. Bounder Proudfoot was in his early seventies and had been a bounder for most of his life – though unlike Bilbo, he'd begun his apprenticeship at thirty three.

"Yer a tad young, lad," the bounder said with a criticizing air while Bilbo stared at his face a sort of empty minded awe. Though there were Proudfoots aplenty in Hobbiton, he'd never seen Tom Proudfoot before – he was one of the late night watchmen, and only went out once sun set.

Tom Proudfoot was the second scarred hobbit he'd seen – after himself. There were several thin lines over his right eye, and the eyeball was milky white and sightless.

"A bird took it," the Bounder said without waiting Bilbo to ask. "Scratched it almost right out. Eagle I think it was. Was in my third year as a bounder, just got my brass buttons. Not the bird's fault mind you – I shot it with an arrow. Stupid thing to do and the bird made me pay for it – almost robbed me of my bowman ship, it did."

The Bounder cackled at his own story and Bilbo stared in awe, wondering if there'd ever come time he could face someone's blatant staring without dismay, share his story, and then laugh on top of it.

 

  1. Right



 

Life of a bounder was walking. Walking up and down the roads, into the woods and out of them, taking stock of people's farm animals and making sure they were all there. There were routes Tom Proudfoot taught Bilbo – and then he taught him to avoid taking them every night.

"If there's a thief about planning a robbery, 'e'll make note of a watchman's route and then avoid it," Bounder Proudfoot said. "So you don't make your rounds a routine, ye hear me, lad?"

It was a good way to avoid getting bored or tired in the night, to vary one's habits, Bilbo found. Not that he was ever precisely bored. His master's nightly routes took them into far too many forests for him to be anything but on the edge and balancing between terror and misery. Even now, with the ground green and leaves in the trees, he kept seeing furry shapes of wolves everywhere.

"So as long as ye cover enough ground on your rounds, there's no wrong way to patrol. Not here," Bounder Proudfoot said. "At the boarders, though, it's a whole different thing."

 

  1. Red



 

The first Bilbo killed was a deer. A doe, maybe three years old, that Bilbo and Bounder Proudfoot stalked for better part of the night. It was half training, half necessity – there was a food shortage, after all.

"Not a good thing to do," his teacher said, as they inspected the kill. It had taken three arrows – the first had caught the deer on the flank, the second on the leg and only the third had caught it in the neck and brought it down. "There aren't that many of them left in these parts – the wolves hunted them down to almost nothing. There'll be restrictions on hunting, soon. Right now though…"

They carried the deer back to the town together and straight to the butcher's shop - Master Proudfoot without a blink, Bilbo trying not to lose his dinner. They'd left the arrows in and of course the creature wasn't bleeding anymore or anything of the sort – and yet there was still so much blood. It was bright red and all over the deer's flank and it was just so, so _red_.

And so terribly, horribly familiar.

"There now, lad," his teacher said, once they'd gotten the deer indoors. He handed his pocket flask to Bilbo and gratefully Bilbo took a swig of the strong spirits in it. "It'll get easier with time."

Whether he was speaking of the killing or the memories the blood was bringing up, Bilbo wasn't sure. It didn't really matter.

 

  1. Famous



 

The Bounders did a lot more for the Shire than Bilbo had ever realised. Just the fact that lot of their work involved checking farmer's fields and making sure no farm animals had vanished during the night was surprising, but the rest of it too. On their rounds they checked houses and smials and even certain workshops and sheds – the ones they knew might have something valuable within it. They had part in the postal service too – quite often a bounder would cover for a sic post man, or fetch letters from this road if they'd been missed for one reason or another.

They also dealt a lot with the Rangers of the north. Though Bilbo had seen them during the Fell Winter, when they'd came down from the north to help patrol the roads, he hadn't even then realised just how much they did for the Shire. Now he knew – because they did, quite often, hand in hand with the Bounders.

"We let 'em know if we see any queer folk, they do the same for us," Master Proudfoot said. "And they carry messages from outside Shire, of course, which we take to the postal offices."

The bounders also watched for the weather and would go as far as to wake up farmers and even land owners to warn them of storms brewing in the night.

And of course, if something went missing, if _someone_ went missing, it was the bounders who went out looking first, ahead of everyone else.

They did dozens of little things for Shire – most of which Bilbo had had no idea were even happening. He was quite certain no one else knew, either. Oh, everyone knew what bounders did, how important they were. But no one really _knew_.


	20. Huff and puff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A cranky Bilbo on a good morning

Bilbo was smoking furiously. Very furiously. With both a furious expression and a pace that was burning through his leaf faster than was proper or in any way pleasant. Truth be told he could hardly even taste the leaf over the burn on his tongue and at is throat but he didn't particularly care. There was a cloud of smoke around him, heavy and thick and he was adding to it every few seconds with a new, irritated exhale.

Hobbiton spread out before him, idyllic and serene and altogether homely. He could hear in the distance the Gamgee lad's gardening scissors going snip-snip-snip as he trimmed his tomato plants and further still he could hear what might've been Lobelia Sackville-Baggins – her dulcet tones were hard to confuse for anyone else's. Somewhere a mother was calling her faunts for second breakfast. She had lot of faunts. Bilbo counted five before he stopped caring.

He inhaled deep and angry and exhaled deep and angry, adding more smoke into the increasingly heavy cloud around him. Through it he could hear something much worse than a mother berating her children. Steps. Heavy, long in stride, accompanied by the clip of a wooden staff against the gravel of the road.

A Big Folk man stood before Bilbo, leaning onto his staff, looking at Bilbo under the edge of his wide brimmed, pointy ended hat. When Bilbo didn't acknowledge him beyond blowing another lungful of smoke into the air, the wizard cleared his throat. Bilbo blew smoke at him.

"You seem mighty irritated for such a fine day," Gandalf finally said, letting out a little huff of something that might be amusement or just one of those mysterious Gandalf noises that Gandalf sometimes made. Bilbo blew more smoke at him, and he huffed again. "Yes, very irritated, huffing and buffing like affronted dragon. Might I enquire whatever's the matter, my dear sir?"

"There's some big folk madman standing in my way," Bilbo answered and sucked another breath through his pipe. It was more fire than smoke now – he'd burned through his leaf altogether, only the embers remained. Angry, he took out his tobacco pouch and shoved a thump's measure of leaf into the chamber and puffed at the pipe until it lit. Then he blew more smoke. "You're blocking my very fine view."

"With that cloud around you, I hardly think you can see much past me anyway," Gandalf said, frowning a little as he leaned back, looking a little insulted. "And you're fine one to be calling someone a madman, my greatly irritated friend."

"Hmph," Bilbo answered and puffed at his pipe, glaring at him.

"Well," Gandalf said. "Whatever bothers you aside – I am looking for someone to take part in an adventure."

"Are you indeed?" Bilbo grunted around his pipe's mouth piece.

"Yes, I am," Gandalf said. "A very exciting one at that. But pardon my manners – my name is Gandalf. Perhaps you might remember me."

"Might I, indeed?" Bilbo harrumphed.

That made the wizard look at him more closely. Then, almost negligent, Gandalf waved his staff through the smoke, dispersing it altogether. Bilbo glared at him as his smoky shield from the glare of the sun dissipated, and the wizard eyed him intently.

"Well," Gandalf said, somewhere between pleased and concerned. "You do remember me, don't you Bilbo Baggins?"

"Hmph," Bilbo answered, and chewed furiously at the pipe.

"And… if I had not seen you huffing like a particularly bothered chimney even before you saw me, one would think I'd done you some injustice," the wizard mused and then stepped forward. "Whatever has soured your mood so much this day, then?"

"Hmph," Bilbo said again and held the pipe out, motioning at Gandalf with the mouth piece. "Right now it's this big folk madman standing in my way and nattering on about how annoyed I am – which I am very well aware I am and therefore am in no need of being enlightened on the matter, thank you very much. I am indeed in a very, very sour mood today, sir, and your overly large nose sticking into whatever annoys me will hardly make me less so."

Gandalf chortled at that and furiously Bilbo stuck his pipe back in his mouth and inhaled angrily. "Well, you've certainly changed, young man," he said. "Better or worse, that is a spine and half on you. Now about my venture -"

"Your _adventure_ ," Bilbo muttered. "Hmph!"

"Yes, my venture which is indeed an adventure – it is missing a member," Gandalf said agreeably. "And with your disposition I do believe you will be the perfect match."

"I'm sure you do," Bilbo scoffed and puffed at his pipe.

"I do indeed," the wizard agreed and straightened up. "Yes, you will be just the thing, I do believe."

Bilbo harrumphed. "And if I think you should shove your adventure so far up your overly large and overly nosy nose that you can feel it coming out of your ears?" he asked.

"I will take it as the perfect example as to why you will be perfect for the adventure," Gandalf said and eyed him. Bilbo glared at him. The wizard smiled. "Well then. We will be over later tonight, I think," he said. "You can expect us around supper time."

"And you can expect no supper to be waiting for you," Bilbo muttered. "In fact I know just what you can expect – a bolted door and a great big fu-"

"Well then," the wizard said as if he hadn't spoken at all and stepped past Bilbo. "I'll just mark your door so everyone will know which one is yours –" he muttered as he scraped the end of his staff over Bilbo's _recently painted_ door and scraped a mark on it, a sort of wonky F. "There," he said, pleased. "Now everything is quite settled."

"Hmph," Bilbo harrumphed, watching him. "Good time to get a new door, I think," he said. "I think Lobelia wanted a green door anyway – maybe she'll be interest in a swap…"

Without a pause Gandalf scrawled something else on the door, another mark. "There, that will ensure that nothing will happen to the door before tonight," he said pleasantly.

Bilbo narrowed his eyes and all but gnashed on his pipe.

"Well then," the wizard said, smiling at him as he returned to the road. "I'll be seeing you later tonight, I think. Good day, Bilbo."

Bilbo glared after the wizard as Gandalf walked at leisure down the road, whistling to himself. The hobbit took another angry breath through the pipe and then lowered it, holding the smoke in. Soon – much sooner than one would think considering the pace he'd been going – Gandalf was entirely out of sight, vanished like, well… smoke in the wind.

"Well blast it all, then. Here we go again," Bilbo muttered and narrowed his eyes, deep in thought for a moment. Then he stood up and shoved the pipe in his mouth before making his way down the road and to the expertly trimmed hedges of the next smial. "Hamfast? Hamfast! How big is your pantry? I have a urgent need to empty mine."

"Master Baggins?" the younger hobbit asked, peeking over the hedge. "Empty your pantry? Whatever for?"

"I need to make space," Bilbo said and glared down the road, where Gandalf had vanished. "Seems like I'm having guests over tonight and there just isn't enough space for them and food in my smial."


	21. Aership

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A snippety AU... thing. With an airship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea, I think this was done to prompts or something.

Bilbo’s parents had a beautiful airship. Bilbo’s father had built it - with Bilbo’s mother’s money they said. It was efficiency and elegance bound together into what people - Lobelia - said was perhaps too luxurious a package for a family so small.

It was all polished brass and well oiled cloth, each pipe laid out with beautiful precision - not like mere mechanical necessity but like an artistic embellishment, there to be admired rather than endured. The decks were all hard wood, warm under foot and in the Bagend nothing ever creaked. It was a well oiled and lovingly maintained masterpiece of some thirty tons, with aer capacity that went up to two hundred tons. It could - and often did - host an entire family tree’s worth of passengers.

The day it crashed and took Belladonna and Bungo with it was a dark day in Hobbiton. The Bagend was the Flagship of the Hobbiton fleet and everyone mourned its loss. Everyone lamented to Bilbo how he was robbed a glorious inheritance.

He didn’t mind building his own. The Windbag wasn’t nearly as impressive as the Bagend but he’d rather have it - and his parents back - than the Bagend without them.

-

Though Bilbo’s parents weren’t the sort to try and terrify their child to behave by telling scary stories about what horrible things happened to faunts that did not do what their parents told them to, he did get his share of cautionary tales - and more than enough ground legends from his peers later on.

They all begun about the same. Some poor sod fell over the edge or over board or their ship sank - one way they’d end up falling. And even if they had a set of wings or a parachute, they never came up again. Whether it was goblins that tore them to bits or orcs who roasted them up or something worse, the result was the same.

They died a painful, gruesome death.

“The ground is their land,” the storytellers whispered. “And they don’t like visitors.”

The stories would’ve been easier to hear… if so many of them hadn’t been true.

-

Bilbo was only a faunt when he saw the ground for the first time. His parents had taken a commission from the Iron Guild to deliver goods to a dwarven fortress, mostly food stuff and aer canisters. And, of course, to bring back metal.

It was the most exhilarating and the most terrifying day of his young life, as the Bagend descended through the protective clouds and to the thick, barren air below. The land - stretching as far as the eye could see, mind-blowing large - was dark. Dark and hard and lifeless.

“The fortress is mostly underground,” his mother explained while fixing a gas mask on Bilbo. “Only the landing tower is above ground, build only so that airships don’t have to land on the ground - where they’d be more vulnerable.”

Bilbo only saw two dwarves - both of them in mechanical suits and almost completely covered in hard, oil stained metal. They unloaded the cargo themselves, without needing the crane or even a lift, carrying the heavy crates off by hand, the mechanisms of their suits hissing and grinding. It was impressive, and more than slightly intimidating.

“They’re hardy people, ” his mother said. “They live their lives in constant danger - in never ending war. They live on the ground, Bilbo. Of course they are strong.”

-

There was a sharp whistle blowing at his ear and with a groan he reached for it, patting along the pipe until he got to a valve and could turn it quickly shut.

It’s then he realised that he was lying on a wall. The wall of the cockpit to be precise, squished between various pressure pipes and what seemed to be - was - a cabinet that must have come loose during the… the….

“Winds wept,” Bilbo muttered. “Crashed. Crashed, of all things. Oh, Lobelia will never let me hear the end of this.”

With some effort he pushed the cabinet off and crawled over the pipes to the window below - above? - to see what he’d landed on and whether the ship was in danger of falling further.

The Windbag wasn’t in danger - it was quite firmly, if not gracefully landed. Where ever he was, it was quite beautiful too. Grasses and bushes and even trees as far as eye could see - elven airland maybe? Squinting, Bilbo tried to see further; there were shapes in the distance. Buildings? They were quite large…

No. Not buildings at all. Mountains.

“Oh bother,” Bilbo muttered.

He was on the ground.

-

When it seemed like he wasn’t about to be attacked, Bilbo cautiously ventured out of the Windbag to survey the damage - fully armed and with a gas mask of course. Wouldn’t do to get air high now, on the ground. The pressure was hard enough to handle as it was.

The aer sacks were almost all deflated - or as near as. On the starboard flank of the ship the sub-sacks were still full of aer and rigid to the touch, but the top sacks were almost empty - front one looked ruptured. No wonder he’d crashed.

“Quite a beating we’ve taken, old boy,” Bilbo sighed, patting the ship’s side. “Now let’s see about your hull…”

Unlike his parents, he’d never quite afforded adding proper plates to his ship - the Windbag’s hull was bare wood and so couldn’t take as much damage as some, better equipped airships. The only reinforced part was the keel - and the armour there had probably kept it from breaking. Still there was damage - there were breaches aplenty and bad scrapes that ran along the side and over the golden lettering of Windbag’s name.

Add to that the torn sails and the fact that the wings had all been either crushed under the ship or torn off during the crash…

“Looks like we’re grounded,” Bilbo said glumly.

Grounded, he knew, was as good as dead.

-

The forest was disturbed. The birds were quiet, not even sounding warnings and what few animals he could see were wary and alert. There was something in the woods - something that did not belong there.

Arrow ready on the bowstring, Glorfindel made his way towards the disturbance, his footsteps silent on the forest grass. He was prepared for orcs, for goblins, even for trolls. Such creatures hadn’t been seen in these lands for centuries - but they had been seen more recently further north. Should they have begun venturing southward…

He’d be more than delighted to help them to change their minds about the wisdom of such act.

There, behind the trees… he could see something. Something quite large.

Trolls, then?

Of all the things he was prepared for - a large boat lying on its side wasn’t it. Nor was the bulging eyed, long snouted creature that was crawling all over it. A some new monstrosity unlike anything he’d seen - quite small perhaps, but only all the more inhuman for it.

Something must have warned the creature about his presence because it suddenly whirled around, a strange club in hand. In answer Glorfindel drew the arrow back…

And blacked out.


	22. Mighty and strong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo Fades

Bilbo planted his acorn in Dale in midst of battle, as sign of hope amidst the death and destruction, a wish that life would spring from the ashes.

Later, when everything was said and down and Thorin, Fíli and Kíli had been laid in stone and Dain Ironfoot had been crowned the King Under the Mountain, Bilbo went back to that spot he'd dug out in the showy dirt of Dale. It was easy enough to find – the earth there was mostly undisturbed, except for the patch he'd dug out to plant his acorn.

"Plant your trees," Bilbo mouthed silently to it, as he knelt in the cold ground, just staring at the little mound of fresh dirt. "Watch them grow."

He'd wanted to plant the tree in Shire, on the hill atop Bagend. It would've looked very fine, he'd thought, especially if it grew out as big as the trees around Beorn's hut – a great old oak atop of Bagend was just the thing, he thought, to crown the Hobbiton Hill. He'd already looked forward to late evenings spent smoking in it's shadows, remembering the strife and struggle of past years and being glad that it was all over. But now…

He'd planted it in Dale, in fairly nondescript corner of the ruined city, on the edge of one of it's many small squares almost entirely out of sight and out of mind except for those who'd seen him plant it. Bard was settling the northern end of the city now, they were planning on restoring a number of buildings there, the ones best preserved, for the winter. Chances were no one would come to this part except by accident or wanderlust in months, maybe not in years. And this was where Bilbo had planted his oak.

If it grew and if it grew as big as Beorn's oaks, then it would eventually stand over the square and what might one day, few years down the line, be a busy street – it led from the southern part to the inner city, and to what had been heart of Dale, the great halls and Lord Girion's house and many others. One day his oak may watch over those making their way there, and those people might know what the oak stood for… but most likely they would not.

Leaning forward, Bilbo pressed his hands gently over the fresh mound of dirt. "Watch them grow," he whispered without a sound and bowed his head.

He could hardly speak anymore – everything got stuck in his throat nowadays and it hurt to breathe. Something had lodged there – Thorin's last breath maybe – and Bilbo could not swallow it or cough it out, and it was quietly, slowly choking him. Perhaps it would be better if he left, perhaps once he reached the warm hills of Hobbiton he could inhale properly again, fill his lungs with warm, sweet air and maybe even make a proper sound again… but he thought not.

No, he'd be choking back the bottomless grief forever, he thought. It would hollow it out – he could already feel it somewhere between his shoulder blades and inside his chest, between his lungs, where every breath hurt anew. It would only get worse with time.

He'd planted his oak before Thorin's death, to give hope to Bard, now Lord of Dale. To ensure himself that there was hope because at that moment – what else he could do? What could one small hobbit do? Whether it had actually done anything or changed anything then didn't matter anymore, though Bilbo hoped it had at least given poor Bard a breather amidst the horror. Trees were good at that. Oaks especially. Good, sturdy trees, oaks.

Choking silently, Bilbo rested his forehead against the dirt, and tried to breathe.

 

* * *

 

 

Gandalf left couple of weeks later, after the restoration of Dale had begun and the restoration of Erebor followed. Bilbo stayed, shaking his head silently at the mournful look Gandalf gave him. There was nothing to it anymore, and he did not feel up to another grand adventure.

"I'll come for you when spring comes," Gandalf said, overly hopeful, and Bilbo just smiled and said nothing.

That winter was long and harsh and lovely all at once – and not at all like the winters in Shire. It was both colder and warmer than in Shire – the Lake Esgaroth froze around the edges and it rained water that froze on whatever surface it hit, but there was very little snow, nothing like the thick soft piles Shire got some winters. Here snow was either wet or it was crisp and hard. Overall, it was quite miserable.

But it was at every turn softened by the sheer _hope_ that was kindling in the heart of Dale. With the forces of hundreds of determined dwarves and desperate men, buildings were being rebuild at neck breaking speed. Some of the buildings that were worse off were dismantled for materials, and in the heart of Dale houses grew, their roots tiled with slate, their walls thick and strong. Inside, hearths blazed warm with Erebor's coal. And in Erebor, the rebuilding was faster still. The front gates were repaired and grander than before.

They build Thorin's likeness to guard the gates, a strong and sturdy guardian that watched over all who dared to cross with stone oak shield at his arm and Bilbo could not bear to look at it.

He remained in the more desolate part of Dale, staying close to his acorn under the ground. The Company had done what they could to make him comfortable – a small building which had probably been a guardsman's office of some sort, had been fixed for his use, equipped with a little stove to keep him warm, filled with warm furs and pillows and blankets. It was very cosy even on the coldest of nights, but Bilbo stayed there only rarely.

"You should join us in the mountain," Balin told him, once again, watching Bilbo sit silent vigil upon the acorn under the frozen ground. "We've come long way restoring the city – you should see it. The gold has been separated, we've even taken care of the golden floor. It's very fine now."

Bilbo shook his head and rested his hand on the cold earth.

Balin wasn't the only one who tried to cajole him into joining the mountain. Bofur and his kin came about often, Ori and Dwalin did too, as did the others, all of them in turn. Even Bard tried to coax him away, once, but he tried to offer him the shelter of the great halls they'd restored, rather than the Lonely Mountain itself. Bilbo refused them all with quiet shakes of his head and kind smiles and bows. He gave the same even to the King Under the Mountain himself when the dwarven lord came to see him.

"It ain't right, one of Thorin's Company being so alone," Dain said with a scowl. "We've space enough for you in the mountain, and fine quarters beside. It's what Thorin would've wanted for ye."

Thorin wanted me to plant my trees and watch them grow, Bilbo did not say, nor did he go to Erebor ever again.

He stayed in Dale through the winter, watching over the acorn. It did not grow – of course not, it was winter after all. They all survived it, from the oldest madam to the youngest babe, in parts due to the coal of Erebor and in parts to the Elvenking's kindness. Thranduil kept supplying Dale and Erebor both with food through the winter, perhaps in some convoluted guilt over the Durin's line. Whatever it was, Dale was grateful, and so was Bilbo who too could eat only thanks to kindness of elves.

Though he did not eat much, anymore.

And then the spring came and it was a beautiful one. Like sensing the dragon's absence, the fields of Erebor were blooming with greenery and then with flowers and in Dale the rebuilding was set aside for planting instead. They sowed fields, they planted trees, they started what one day would hopefully be orchards and great gardens. And perhaps one day they would even have the great forests of Erebor back. Who knew.

Bilbo stood vigil by his lone acorn, his face turned up to the sun, unfeeling of the warmth, and waited for it to sprout.

 

* * *

 

 

"Are you going to go, soon?" Bofur asked Bilbo, late one warm spring day while Bilbo picked at the weeds surrounding his acorn's hiding spot. "It's been a long winter, but it's not been too wet – by the time you get over Mirkwood, the passes of Misty Mountains should already be open and easy to traverse. See I've been thinking that I could go back to the Blue Mountains for a spell – some matters we left unsettled there, and there's Durin's folk too. They begin their travel back here this summer, you know, and they need all the able bodies they need to help…"

Bilbo set the weeds aside gently and then turned his attention to the acorn instead, resting his fingers gently over the mound in dirt. Then, very carefully, he shifted a bit of the dirt aside.

There, hiding amidst the dirt, there was a hint of a green sprout, still bent over and pale, but alive.

Bofur chattered on to fill the silence, as he always did, warm and careless and kind. Bilbo ran a finger tip along the sprout's thin little stem, smiling at it brokenly. Then, leaning back, Bilbo took a breath and released it slowly. Dale was starting to bloom and flower, too – there were weeds and grass everywhere, and flowers grew from the cracks in the stone and it was quite lovely to look at. One day they'd be cleared out, probably, one day there might be actual intentional flower arrangements in Dale, grown from those resilient little flowers. Maybe not.

He'd never see it, but it didn't matter. For now, it looked lovely. It looked hopeful. Erebor and Dale both had risen from their destruction and they were growing again – with more people and more vigour and more valour too, if luck was on their side. Eventually they would be great and grand again, and it was enough that Bilbo could imagine it.

He thought that Thorin might've imagined it too, and who knows, maybe they'd seem something alike.

"Yes," Bilbo said quietly. "I'll be going soon, I think."

But not back to Shire.

 

* * *

 

 

Bilbo never did manage to put into words what Thorin meant to him, what Thorin _was_ to him – he always choked on the words, the knot of pain in his throat growing too big and too painful to surpass. Maybe the others knew, for there were always sad smiles and understanding in their eyes, and they never pressed for the explanation. Maybe they heard the words he couldn't speak, irregardless. And maybe that was just about enough.

The oak sprouted finally, on a quiet, warm morning in late that spring, and Bilbo sat vigil beside it until the thing lodged in his throat finally took his breath away.


End file.
